


A Dragon Resistant

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2020-11-28 15:02:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 77,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20968508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: 258 ACE. Prince Aerys Targaryen, newly returned from his squireship at Raventree hall, turns down his father's order that he marry his sister Rhaella--only to be swept into a war against marauding ironborn before the full consequences of his decision are felt. But victory does not necessarily bring peace, and a deadly feud that begins at Seagard Castle threatens to consume the Seven Kingdoms by giving an opening to his family's most dangerous enemies...





	1. Chapter 1

“No.”  
Aerys’ voice rang with anger as he rose to his feet.   
A few gasps echoed around the edges of the court. Shaera’s hand flew to her mouth. Rhaella looked, if not happy, somewhat hopeful.  
And the King….the King’s face was unreadable.   
“Aerys…listen.” His father raised his hands, in a gesture that seemed pleading and firm at once. “This is what you—”  
“I said no.” Jaehaerys was stunned into silence by the prince’s sharp tone. “Father, this will be the downfall of the House. Trust me. Please.”  
From the corner of his eye, he could see a small smile begin to creep onto his grandfather’s lips.  
“I love her as my sister, and I always will, but marrying Rhaella will bring neither of us happiness, bring no power to our House, and bring us shame in the eyes of the smallfolk. Again.”  
The last word clearly stung Jaehaerys, who began to stride towards him. “Take that back!”   
“Calm yourself. Please,” Aerys pleaded. He could see the colour beginning to rise around his father’s cheeks, and remembered the last attack that he had taken. If I’ve gone too far….Seven help me.  
“There…there are other choices. Uncle’s woods witch spoke of the blood of the dragon, no? I can seek a bride in the Free Cities. Or the Velaryons’ daughter is nearly of age. I could wait.”  
“He isn’t wrong,” his grandmother murmured quietly. “Jae, please think about this. We don’t have to decide now.”  
“I’ve made my decision. We have. They will be wed.” The Prince of Dragonstone had slowed his breathing down again. “Aerys, when you are older, you’ll—”  
For the second time in as many minutes, gasps echoed around the edges of the throne room. With one fluid motion, his son had pulled a knife from his belt, and dropped to one knee, facing the Iron Throne. The tip of the knife quivered against the rocks below as he began to speak.  
“I take this oath in the eyes of the old gods and the new, for family, friends, foes and smallfolk to hear. I will never wed my sister, nor any woman of House Targaryen, not even if I must take a black brother’s vows first. I swear it by earth and water. I swear it by bronze and iron. I swear it by ice and fire.”  
Dropping the knife, Aerys rose, bowed briefly in the direction of the royal couple, shouldered his way through gawping courtiers, and strode off towards the stables. 

It had all started out so differently that morning.  
Duncan had been there for the past few days. He could never stand Duncan. It wasn’t the way that his uncle spoke in riddles, or even the smell of some strange herb on the man’s clothes (he had heard Bonifer Hasty quietly suggest that it was skunkweed, but had never heard of that before). Or his woman, Jenny of Oldstones with the crackling brown flowers in her hair, smelling of river water and looking like one of the Children. It was the look in his grandfather’s eyes. Duncan wasn’t a bad man, nor even an unable one. But he could have been an able King, could have married into one of the Kingdoms’ most powerful families. And he had thrown it away on Jenny. So whenever Aerys saw his uncle, he was reminded of Aegon V’s eyes growing dark, of his grandmother haunted by the same look that came over her when she saw Aerys’ own parents together.   
And he couldn’t love the man, then. However close they might be meant to be.   
For all that, it was the quieter moments between the King and the Prince of Dragonflies that frightened Aerys most. For on occasion, Aegon would speak with Duncan alone, once the musicians had packed up their cases for the night, walking with him for hours around the edge of the Red Keep. Aerys and Bonifer had been coming back from Stokeworth on one of those nights, and what the prince had seen had been highly unusual. His calm, handsome, collected grandfather had run his hands through his hair enough that it stood up in short white shocks, and was speaking in a low intense voice as father and son paced the base of the wall. Both he and Duncan had a weird intensity in their eyes, giving Aerys a start when he saw them. Neither man had noticed them, even though the older Duncan had. But the Kingsguard knight just nodded quietly to them as he followed his old squire through the late summer night. Aerys had lain awake for hours that night, wondering what on earth his uncle could have said.

But that had been two years ago. Now Aerys was nearly a man grown, fifteen with close-cropped hair in striped black and white. Bonifer was older than him, and almost done with his time squiring. He’ll want to join the Kingsguard, I shouldn’t wonder. Bonifer’s ser was Gareth Shawney, the oldest and feeblest of the white cloaks, and losing the sight in his left eye besides. But there were already two stormlanders in their ranks, and Aerys could tell that the political winds had shifted against the region in recent years. They had risen too fast; a royal marriage, a knight named to the Kingsguard just five years before, and Lord Caron on the Small Council. His granduncles, Lord Benjicot Blackwood and his silent brother Edmund, had made their displeasure known. The Vale and the North sent few men to court these days, and seemed to care little for the whole affair, but the Reachmen and Westerlanders agitated against House Baratheon with every waking breath.

And now this. To have Jenny of Oldstones received as a lady at court was asking much, even for his uncle. But bringing a woods witch had been too much. Aerys had laughed openly when the woman had suggested that he and Rhaella ought to marry, but fallen silent as his father and uncle drew together to speak after dinner. It had been just noon of the following day when his father decided to make this disastrous announcement, without asking either brother or sister.

Well, Father, maybe you could’ve thought this over a bit longer.

“What are you doing?”

Duncan the Tall sounded slightly amused. 

“What does it look like?” Aerys answered irritably. At least, that was what he’d meant to say; he was holding a bridle between his teeth as he slipped a girth around his palfrey, so t came out as a series of grunts.

“You cant just run away, you know.” Duncan sat down on the largest bale of hay he could find. It seemed to be slipping apart under his weight. “Your father will want to speak—”  
“He had his chance to speak to me, ser. To us. He didn’t.” This sentence was said clearly, as Aerys began to cinch the bridle. “And I’m not running away. Raventree isn’t away.”  
“Have you told Lord Benjicot of this unexpected visit?”  
“I’ll ask that a raven be sent,” Aerys replied briefly. He had nearly finished saddling the horse. “They keep telling me to go up there, you know. It’s not as if he’ll turn me away.”  
“Aye, but this mightn’t be the best time,” Duncan said softly. “Your Grace—”  
“Just Aerys.”  
“—Aerys, you’ve changed a lot since you squired for Edmund Blackwood. Gods, when I think about what a pompous little toady you were before you learned to carry his water and clean his equipment…well, your grandmother had good judgment. But a man full grown shouldn’t just run from his problems. Mind you, Rhaella can’t, so that’s reason alone to stay here.”

He’s right. And it hurt. Aerys thanked the gods—not Duncan’s Seven, but the old gods to whom he’d prayed since the age of eleven—that he hadn’t spent his formative years at court. Serving Raventree Hall’s dark-eyed master at arms had been the hardest thing he’d ever done, but it had made him a boy no more. Rhaella had hated him before he left. They only had a good relationship as siblings now, since he’d come home as the man Edmund Blackwood had wanted. That man wouldn’t turn up at the Cairns Gate like a fleeing child.  
At least, not without his sister.

It took Aerys only a minute to undo his work with the horse, and then he was on his feet, striding behind Duncan towards the royal apartments.

I can’t put this off any further, I suppose.


	2. Chapter 2

"This cannot be borne."

Aerys had thought to speak with his father upon entering the royal family's stuffy, quiet apartments. Instead, he had almost literally run into his grandfather on the way in. Aegon V was in a rare fury, and Lord Appleton was hard on his heels, only pulling himself up when he realised he was about to cross the threshold of the Maidenvault. Aegon waved him in impatiently, but the short, grey-haired Hand was unable to catch the King up before Aerys fell in beside him.

"Lord Hand, what's happened?" He had thought for a moment that Aegon was reacting to the affair in court earlier--_it's been an hour since, but it feels like no more than moments--_but it was belied by the King's anger. _I doubt a member of his family has ever made him that angry._

"Ironborn scum." Appleton's tone was short and sharp. "I hadn't thought they'd dare stir themselves again after the mess that old Stark's boy left them at Barrowton, but they have. There's been reaving again on the Stony Shore. Four villages. Hundreds of men dead, when the Ryswells rode down to deal with them. It's the third time this year."

_The Stark boy....he must mean Lord Edwyle, then. _It was strange to think of the towering man he had once met at Raventree Hall, as ever having been a boy, but the battle at the Fever River--_not Barrowton, he's thinking of the time Lord Harlaw laid siege to the Dustins--_had taken place when Edwyle Stark had been barely seventeen. Deep in his cups, as Aerys had helped him back to his chambers, Edmund Blackwood had whispered in his ear that Edwyle had broken his sword on Dalton Greyjoy's chain mail, and beaten him to death with a splintered yardarm that had fallen from one of the burned yardarms. 

_But he isn't young anymore, is he? _

"What does Grandfather plan to do?" the prince murmured.

"The Lannisters are bloody useless at the moment, so I think His Grace means to call for the Redwynes to send their fleet to Faircastle, and then summon Eldred to

answer for his bannermen here." Appleton sounded resigned. "Not that he'll come, but this way he can't complain."

+++

"Father, we must..."

"Not now, Jae."

The Prince of Dragonstone sank back into his seat, next to Aerys' mother, as the King entered the main chamber of the royal apartments. Grandmother had already taken up her usual place perched on the edge of a chair--_she can never sit like a normal person, and I wish I knew why. _

"But this matter that Duncan told us of, it's--"

"We haven't the time for it." Aegon quickly recounted the tale that Appleton had told Aerys. Betha Blackwood cursed once or twice as he did, making Aerys' mouth twitch. _She's so much like her brother sometimes._

"What are the next steps?" Jaehaerys started as Aerys spoke up. _Didn't even notice me? Really? It's not as if I snuck in._

"Ravens to Lannisport and the Arbour, and an army to Seagard. Then, I'll call Eldred Greyjoy to come here before me."

"Grandfather, there may be another way."

For the second time that day, Aerys' words sent a shockwave through the room. 

"And what would that be?" The King didn't sound quite amused, but he clearly wasn't dismissing his grandson out of hand.

"Were the ships that raided the Stony Shore from the Greyjoys themselves, or a sworn House?"

Aegon turned to Lord Appledon, who pulled a small scroll from somewhere in his robes. "Let me see, your grace....doesn't say here, but Lord Ryswell described a flag with two...green snakes on it, or some such..."

"The Merlyns, then, of Great Wyk. Grandfather, Eldred Greyjoy isn't known for his loyalty to his own lords. Call for Lord Merlyn, and him only, to appear before you, once you've summoned the Western and Reach fleets. If Eldred's given the chance to save some face, he may throw Merlyn under the cart."

"Your Grace, I'm glad you've put some thought into this." Appleton's tone was cautious. "And I certainly commend you on your knowledge of the ironborn sigils. But if Lord Eldred sacrifices this Merlyn, his own men would turn on him."

"Eldred is a fool." Grandmother's tone was firm. "Ben took his surrender at the Fever River. Obnoxious, short-tempered...this may yet work."

_I see we have the same sources. No surprise there._

"It also buys us time to draw up a fleet in the West," Aerys argued. "Tywin Lannister's proven himself reasonably sharp these few weeks he's been at court. Could we not send him to gather ships? With him and the Reach together, we'd outnumber the ironborn at sea by far."

"I know he's close to you, your Grace, but surely Lord Lannister..."

"...has proven himself incapable. Again and again." A familiar note of irritation crept into Aegon's voice. "I think Aerys has reason. I can call for Lord Merlyn first, certainly, and then Lord Greyjoy if he shields the man. That said, if another Iron Islands House decides to have an adventure out west, then we ditch that idea. Clear?"

Everyone in the room nodded.

"Good. Lord Appledon, write to the Arbor and Oldtown. Jae, you are to return to Dragonstone and send the fleet from the Crownlands southward, to head around Dorne. I'll have a raven sent to Gulltown for the same purpose with the Arryn fleet. "

"Isn't that too much, Father?" Jaehaerys had a worried tone in his voice. "The ironborn have been reaving on and off since you were a boy. This response sounds like a war."

"And I've told them to stop, time after time. Uncle Brynden broke the Red Kraken along with the North and the West, and we thought they'd learned their lesson. No such luck, it seems. I _will not _let them prey on every smallfolk village facing the Sunset Sea again."

Aegon's eyes seemed to be staring at empty space. _He's remembering the Reach when the Red Kraken was alive. _Ser Duncan had told Aerys of the devastation that the two men had seen when Aegon was his squire, down in the south.

"In any event, we need to bring force to bear on Lord Eldred. Aerys, you tell lord

"Should I not go, Grandfather? Not to the Rock, but at least north."

Aegon tipped his head to one side, an unusual sight. "Why?"

"I've seen little combat beyond bandits in Blackwood Vale," Aerys said simply. "It'd be much harder for me to command men in the future if I don't."

"Aerys, you're still a boy." His mother sounded worried. "I wasn't happy when Uncle Ben sent you out to fight, believe me. These are _ironborn."_

"Father fought at Wendwater Bridge when he was younger than I am now," the prince said stubbornly. "And those were Golden Company men."

"He's right, Shae," Jaehaerys added. "I came out of that all right."

"Only because the Kingsguard--"

"Ser Jonothor will go with him," Aegon declared firmly. "Aerys, take men from each Crownland house between here and the border with you, and the southern Riverlands houses. Lord Tully can bring the rest of them to Seagard."

Aerys' jaw nearly dropped. "You want me to command them?"

"Ser Jonothor will be there to help you, but yes. You have to start somewhere."

_I thought I could go to observe, and serve under Lord Benjicot again. This...this might be too much._

"As you will, your Grace." Aerys dipped his head.

_Gods help me._


	3. Chapter 3

The morning (or night, depending on how one viewed it) air was dead still as Aerys rose, wrapped his left hand around the grip ofa heavy iron bar he always kept for this purpose, and strodetowards the edge of the camp, stopping once he'd reached the half-dead oak he'd seen the night before. Ser Duncan, sleeping fitfully as always, stirred himself upon hearing the prince's light footsteps crunching through the autumn leaves, and stood at attention as Aerys began his exercises.

Left. Right. Overhand. Underhand (always risky for his feet). Block. Aerys felt the sweat beading on his brow, washing out the poison of the Arbor gold he'd enjoyed the night before, as he pummelled the crude training post into submission. The bar was twice as heavy as theweapon he'd brought with him, wrapped up next to his armour...

_"I'm proud of you."_

_Aerys was surprised to hear his grandfather say it. The two, man and boy, had been walking around the edge of the Red Keep. The welcoming feast had been joyous. Grandmother had been happy to see her brothers again, and Rhaella and Steffon alike had been stunned when they saw Aerys. He was little taller than when he'd left for Raventree, but had arms like a blacksmith's and the beginnings of a salt-and-pepper beard. _I've also been less of an ass.

_"Edmund made a man of you," Aegon murmured by way of explanation. "I was a little worried when you left."_

_"I can imagine, Grandfather." Aerys laughed quietly. "I think Rhaella about spit her food out when I asked after our old nursemaid."_

_"She has better manners than that," the ever-present Ser Duncan interjected. The two Targaryens nodded in assent. _

_"I have a gift for you." Aegon stopped, and turned to Ser Duncan, who presented him with a canvas sack. He seemed relieved to let go of it. _Is it that heavy?

_"Edmund says you've trained with an axe, no? You might have more use for this than for a sword." Aerys almost cursed as he took hold of the sack. It was heavy, no doubt--not enough to trouble Ser Duncan, strangely, but a good weight nonetheless._

_His breath faded away as he unwrapped its contents. The mace was almost the length of his full arm, with a ruby at the pommel, and evil-looking black spikes._

_"This...this is..."_

_"My father's mace," Aegon said quietly._

The one that killed his brother Baelor. _Now Aerys understood why Ser Duncan hated carrying it. _A trial of seven fought for his foot's sake, one wrong swing of this weapon, and that was the last anyone saw of Baelor Breakspear. 

_"It has quite the history, but it served him well against the Blackfyres and the Peakes." Aegon ran his pointer finger down the length of one of the spikes. "I don't know if you'll ever be Aemon the Dragonknight, boy, but no one will ever call you weak. Especially if you can swing this."_

_"I don't know if I can, yet," Aerys confessed. _

_"You have time."_

Just under a year and a half had passed, and the prince could now swing King Maekar's mace single-handed. He suspected he'd have the chance soon.

"I give up, I give up! No one can riseearlier than him!" 

Steffon's booming voice carried several yards ahead of him, as always. Aerys rolled his eyes. "It would help if you'd laid off the ale, Steff."

"Bugger that!" Steffon clapped him on the back, only for his face to fall to seriousness a moment later. "Ae...do you intend to ride back to the Ploughman's Keep? If not, let me go. We can't leave Lord Darry like that."

"No," the prince answered firmly. “And nor will you, Steff. He made his choice, and now he lives with it. We ride on once this lot has risen themselves.”

“Your Grace…”

Aerys turned to see a thin young man approaching the two of them. His curly brown hair was cut close, and his face was grim.

“Norbert Vance, Your Grace, of Atranta. If I might speak about last evening…please do not hold what happened against Lord Darry. He’s grown fearful of starvation, ever since the—”

“I thank you, ser, but there’s no use,” Aerys said firmly. “Lord Darry made his decision, and now he shall have to live with it. Although it seems you will not.”

“We’ve had enough ironborn raids not to turn away when they come down on another’s head,” Vance said firmly. “My uncle has already made his way towards the Cape of Eagles, Your Grace.”

“Good. Then I’m afraid we have little more to speak of on this matter, ser.” Aerys nodded firmly, and Vance took the hint, bowing slightly as he left.

“He’s worried,” Steff rumbled.

“He should be,” Aerys responded, hooking the iron bar through his belt. “Oswald Darry will not fare well these next few years, I imagine.”

++++

_“No.”_

_The word echoed through the Ploughman’s Keep like a shockwave. Jonothor Darry blanched. Norbert Vance and Brynden Tully, Lord Oswald’s squires, were whispering to one another._

_“My lord, this is a royal command.” Aerys rose, towering over his host, with Steff behind him. “Perhaps you misunderstood.”_

_“I did not, b—Your Grace.” Oswald Darry seemed terrified, but found some reserve of courage deep within himself. “We needs must get the harvest in before the winter comes down on us. You already have thousands at your back.”_

_“We will face thousands at the Cape, my lord,” Steff broke in angrily, “while you sit watching your smallfolk drag ploughs.”_

_“You think to insult me in my own hall?” Oswald’s voice was soft but deadly. “Blood of the dragon or not, boy, you will abide by guest right in the riverlands.”_

This bastard, _Aerys fumed. _I ask to speak with him in his solar, and he says we can “talk later”. I thought he meant that it was no trouble, of course he’d have our back. What a rat.

_“Lord Darry, offering us your bread and salt does not exempt you from your oaths.” The prince’s tone brooked no dissent. “The realm has had little and less peace from the ironborn since my grandfather was a squire. This cannot be borne any longer.”_

_“Nor can hunger be borne,” snarled Darry, “and yet that is what you would doom us to, Your Grace. If the old and elderly didn’t keep my lands untilled—”_

_He stopped, abruptly. Somewhere in his head, Oswald Darry had realised how big a mistake he had made._

_“So_that _is what this is about,” Aerys growled. “My grandfather asks only that lords not force smallfolk off their land when the head of house dies, and for you, this is enough to lead to this defiance.”_

_“I…Your Grace, this doesn’t…we…”_

“Enough,” _the prince muttered. He rose his voice. “To all the lords and knights who accompanied me here…roust yourselves. We leave immediately.”_

“What?!” _Darry spluttered._

_“Oswald Darry, it is the height of discourtesy to insult your host while under guest right. So we will leave, and camp further along the road. Know this: once I have crossed your gates, I will name you an oathbreaker and false friend to the Crown. And I will call here agin when I pass back towards the Red Keep. Consider how you will respond to me then.” Aerys pushed his plate back and beckoned to Lords Hayford, Gaunt and Langward, who had accompanied him from the Crownlands. “My lords, gather your men.”_

_A few of Darry’s men had joined the royal host when it rode out through the gate of Castle Darry: his squires, visiting knights from neighbouring Houses, a handful of sellswords._

++++

“Half a week’s riding will have us to Seagard.”

Aerys had gathered the handful of lords accompanying their party in his tent, allowing their men time to strike camp.

“My father will be well there already,” Brynden Tully declared. As members of two of the largest riverlands houses, he and Norbert Vance were allowed to join the small throng of Crownlands lords. “With the Pipers, both sets of Vances, and your kin from Raventree Hall, Your Grace.”

“Aye.” A few weeks before, Aerys would have been cowed by the idea of commanding men so much older than him. He had forced himself to push his doubts aside the day he’d ridden from King’s Landing. _I've no time for them now. _

"We have ravens from the Rock and Winterfell this morning," Steff added. "Four thousand coming down the neck, seven thousand coming east. And twenty ships from Feastfires."

"Will this teach the North to keep a fleet on their western coast?" growled Lord Gaunt. "If they had ships, we wouldn't have to wait for the bloody Redwynes to come all the way up."

"I'll have words with Lord Stark," Aerys promised. "There are galleys at Bear Island, but you may have the right of it, my lord."

_We could use them now, that it will be war._

+++

_Aerys' strategy had never had the chance to work. The ships that had fallen on the Cape of Eagles a day before he and __Staff were to ride bore the golden kraken on their sails. A knight from House Mallister had ordered them to lay down their arms in the name of the King, only to be met with an arrow to his chest. Seagard might have fallen if not for Tywin Lannister. Before he had even left the Red Keep, the grim Lannister heir had sent ravens ordering the Lannisport fleet to set sail. An advance squadron had pinned the Iron Fleet's first wing against the Cape of Eagles, and left their longships piles of burning wood. With that, King Aegon had sent the royal navy south to round the "arse of Westeros", and ordered the Arryns and Manderlys to portage as many of their small ships as possible across the Neck at its narrowest point. Aerys had shaken his head at the seeming waste of time, but fifty longships with falcons and mermen on their sails were now gathered around Seagard's harbour. Another ten were patrolling the Stony Shore, deterring any adventurous Greyjoy captains. _For now. 

+++

As they rode out that morning, Aerys found his fingers tapping against the grip of his mace. To an observer, it seemed idle. In reality, it was with nerves.

_This is war now. With the ironborn at least, maybe with the Darrys as well._

_Good thing I practised with this thing._


	4. Chapter 4

The parchment crackled under her hand as Ulla traced a line of spidery digits, each representing many dragons’ worth of iron sold and fish harvested, across the page. She sighed a little as she came to the end; long hours of work, late into the night, and the answer had not changed: the Wynches were short again.  
She hoped it would change now, but knew she shouldn’t. Her father was dead. Gorold Wynch had been a towering man in stature and appetites; often as not, the coils of rope that Wynch weavers made, and the blood-red salmon that Wynch fishers hauled out of Ironman’s Bay, turned into tankards of ale and lifted skirts when Lord Gorold visited Lordsport. But he would never be seen there again; a Prester crossbowman’s bolt had pierced his stomach four days before off the Cape of Eagles, and her brother Uther was the new Lord of Iron Holt. For how long, she couldn’t be certain.  
The thin woman set her quill down. She now had just a few hours before Lord Greyjoy’s council was to meet before the Seastone Chair, and needed to draw her head out of the ledger.  
+++  
„My Lord, we’re in too far.“  
Sigfryd Harlaw was one of very few ironborn with the courage to admit fear. Ulla suspected it wouldn’t serve him well today. The lord of the Ten Towers was clearly agitated as he paced back and forth in front of the seated, utterly silent Lord Greyjoy.  
„The Westerlords have already gathered a fleet larger than the one that we faced at the Fever River, half of the Riverlords are marching on the Cape of Eagles and the Arryns—„  
„are overmatched,“ growled Silar Orkwood. „I never took you for a woman’s heart, Sigfryd.“  
„Brave words from one who hasn’t fought or sailed yet,“ Jorvik Sunderly retorted. „Two nephews I’ve lost to the blasted eagles already. If we had let Merlyn twist in the wind a while, we wouldn’t be up against the damn wall.“  
Ulla sighed quietly._ And that’s the last reason we’ll hear these few moons._ Sunderly and Harlaw spoke well, as always, but the rest of the room was with the Orkwood captain. Including Eldred Greyjoy. The Lord Reaper of Pyke was terrified—not of dying of battle, but of the eternal comparisons between him and the father he’d watched die on the shores of the North, along with both of Ulla’s grandfathers, six of her uncles and many cousins from the Botley side of her family. Terrified of not following the Old Way to the letter (although she suspected her house’s liege lord couldn’t read). Terrified of abandoning Lord Mertyn, who had struck against the Stony Shore and the Ryswells against his orders. Dagon Greyjoy, a man with no need to prove himself, would have ordered the chinless Lord of Pebbleton drowned in Ironman’s Bay. But Eldred ruled now, and Eldred was weak.

„We will not give in,“ he roared, slamming his mailed fist on the edge of the Seastone Chair. „Sunderly, Harlaw, we have heard you, but now is not the time to shrink. My father did not shrink. The Red Kraken did not shrink. No Greyjoy has ever shrinked!“  
Shrunk, Ulla thought quietly, but her thoughts were drowned out as the ironborn lords and captains hammered the long tables with their own gauntlets. Some wit began singing a raiding song, and the rest joined in.  
_And thus it begins._ She felt remarkably alone. Uther was at sea now, racing towards Faircastle. Her mother had died seven years before. Few of the Wynch serving men trusted her, and she felt unable to make decisions in her brother’s name, despite her father’s orders before he took sail.  
_Here I shall sit, and count my numbers._ She nodded to her manservant, who gripped the edges of her wheelchair and rolled her out of the room. Her departure went unnoticed.

+++  
„Halved, and halved, and halved again.“  
Steff’s voice was tinged with fury. Aerys wanted to curl up and weep, but resisted the urge.  
Of all the lords sworn to his grandfather who had been called, less than half had shown up. The news from Castle Darry had rippled outwards. Lord Oswald’s defiance had seemingly emboldened others. The Tullys, the Pipers, the Brackens, the Mootons had all begged off, as had most of the Westerlords, citing the harvest. Unable to punish or reprimand, Aerys had gritted his teeth at each new raven bearing a message of desertion.  
The paucity of men gathered before Seagard was obvious. Seven thousand Crownlands soldiers and six thousand Stormlanders under Steffon Baratheon had crossed the continent with Aerys; originally meant to be a small addition to the force, they now comprised the majority. Only four thousand had come from the Westerlands, all of them from coastal Houses that knew not to underestimate the Iron Islands. The Arryns had only ended up sending a bare two thousand, their own house guards plus a scattering of Royce and Redfort men. The only riverlords present were the Vances of Atranta, the Mallisters themselves…and Aerys’ kindred. The Blackwoods had sent almost every man they had under arms.  
The men from Raventree Hall had been led by the One-Handed Crow, Edmund Blackwood. He now faced Aerys from across the table, flanked by Norbert Vance and Ser Patrek Mallister.  
„The North will still come,“ Ser Patrek interjected softly. „Six thousand are crossing the Neck with Lord Edwyle, as of yesterday.“  
„Six?“ Aerys said, puzzled. „I had heard four, ser.“  
„Edwyle Stark called the Hornwoods and Manderlys to join him when he heard about my neighbours’ treachery. Some of your grandfather’s bannermen remember their oaths,“ Blackwood snarled. „Ae—Your Grace, if you would care to pay the Darrys a visit on your way homewards, I’m sure some of us would join you.“ He looked almost pained at now longer being able to call the Targaryen prince „boy“.  
„Not yet,“ Steffon interjected. „We still have an ironborn lord to deal with, Ser Edmund.“  
„If we can,“ Lord Hayford interjected. „We lack the ships to deal with the Iron Fleet now.“  
„Only for a while longer.“ The most recently arrived commander in the room spoke as soon as he’d finished a gulp of wine. Jason Lannister would’ve been the tallest man in the room if not for Edmund Blackwood, and was most likely the handsomest. He also had the most ships under his command of any of them; the entire Westerlands fleet had gathered off Seagard, diminishing sightings of the Iron Fleet. „The Redwynes will be here in four days’ time at longest.“  
„Then what?“ Aerys said quietly. „My lords, I very much doubt that Eldred Greyjoy will be caught close to shore, and we’ll still be outnumbered at sea. He’s defied a royal command to lay down the arms he raised against Seagard. Without the royal fleet…“  
„Then we lure the bastards to shore,“ Steffon interjected. „Is there anything that’d persuade the ironborn to make landfall on the Cape of Eagles?“  
„They’ve already been thrown back twice from there,“ Ser Patrek answered. „Even Eldred Greyjoy wouldn’t be fool enough.“  
The wheels in Aerys’ head began to turn slowly. _Why? Because he thinks that he’s slightly outnumbered on land, which is right. But if he thinks that he has the upper hand….why would he…barely need to change anything, we’re already weak enough at sea…wait, wait that’s IT…_  
„That’s true,“ the prince added, „but not if Lord Greyjoy thinks we’re outnumbered on land.“  
„What do you mean?“ Edmund asked bluntly.  
„We send away half our fleet, tell Lord Stark to appear as if he’s turned tail, and draw back into Seagard,“ Aerys proclaimed confidently.  
The room fell silent.  
„I beg your pardon,“ Patrek Mallister asked quietly.  
„Ser, we’re stuck as is,“ Aerys answered, his certainty in the mad scheme that he’d come up with growing by the second. „If Lord Greyjoy thinks our forces have scattered, he’ll strike inwards towards Seagard. We hide smaller ships down the coast, let them come close in, and then raise the boom in the harbour. They’ll be trapped like rats in a sack.“  
„It wouldn’t be worth the risk, Aerys,“ Steff said plainly. „It’s a small port, begging your leave, Lord Mallister.“  
„For a greater prize, they might,“ Jason Lannister interjected.  
„Such as?“  
„Such as a prince.“  
+++  
Potatoes, a barrel of salt beef, green lentils from just south of the Gift, a giant wheel of cheese…Branda Stark shook her head as she picked her way through the baggage train. Night was falling over the southern Neck, and a cloud of mosquitoes along with it.  
„Are ye nearly done yet? One o’ the aedds almost got me arse.“ When they were alone, Lyarra dropped the polite speech that Aunt Marna had drilled into them during their time at Winterfell, and reverted to the mix of profanity, Lorathi slang and Old Tongue that Rodrik Stark’s children had spoken for most of their lives.  
„Gi’ me a mo’“, Branda called back, pulling herself up onto the last, and longest, of the wagons. This one was meant to have the ale, and a shortfall would mean trouble for the men’s morale. They had been on the road for weeks now with no sign of ironborn, wildlings, bandits or anything else interesting.  
Finding it adequate, she hopped back off and joined Lyarra at the edge of the wagon pool. Normally, the sisters would have been unwelcome in the highly male realm of a war camp, but Edwyle—_can’t believe he’s me cousin and not me uncle, really_—knew better; Rodrik Stark had taught his daughters to keep their ears to the ground, their eyes on the sums and a polite smile on their faces. Either could be lady of a great house, mistress of a roadside inn or an excellent ship’s captain if pressed.  
And at the moment, Lyarra was feeling somewhat pressed.  
„I’m no’ ready for him, Bran,“ she muttered again, as they walked back between Umber and Cerwyn tents. „Seventeen isn’t long enough living free.“  
Branda nodded quietly. Rickard Stark, their cousin’s only child, had made no secret of his interest in her sister, despite warning looks from both of their mothers. Lyarra had never been shy about knowing what she wanted, and one day, that would be Rickard. But at the moment, she needed to be away from the brooding, mopey adolescent.  
„Well, if ye’ve got any luck, he’ll wander down to the winter town before we get back. Get some of those…urges worked out,“ Branda said slyly. Lyarra punched her in the side, instantly outraged.  
„He wouldna!“  
_You don’t want him to, you mean,_ Branda smiled inwardly.

Edwyle Stark’s tent was already well lit against the falling dark. The Warden of the North was perched on the edge of a chair, reading and rereading a small raven scroll. He started briefly when Branda entered, Lyarra shortly behind her.  
„Wasn’t expecting you there, niece.“ Beside him, Mors Umber seemed lost in thought. The Lord of Last Hearth’s middle son had been reading over Lord Edwyle’s shoulder, only to break off when his liege rolled up the scroll.  
„There’s more than enough to get us to Seagard, cousin,“ Branda said sweetly, ironing the sellsword’s daughter out of her voice. She could almost smell Lyarra rolling her eyes.  
„For a few more days?“ Umber interjected.  
„Well…a week if we don’t forage, two if we do.“  
„We’ll need all that time,“ Edwyle declared.  
„What do you…“  
„There’s been a change of plan,“ Mors explained.  
„We might not reach Seagard after all“.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope people like this chapter--was wondering if any consistent readers i have could give me a hand. I am planning fancast of the OCs I have, and am looking for suggestions for the following two roles:
> 
> Aerys Targaryen (I have good ones for all the other major characters except him, for some reason).  
Creepy character in his late teens/early 20s (yet to be introduced).
> 
> Any help much appreciated. Thanks!


	5. The Cape

The Cape of Eagles was the coldest place Aerys had ever been. Shivering slightly, he pulled his black cloak closer around his shoulders. Even standing close to one of the fires, his feet were going numb. _I honestly can’t imagine how the Northerners deal with it being worse than this. _There were few trees on the Cape, and the winds off Ironman’s Bay swept over it without resistance. It also made it difficult to hide; he could see the lights of the Starks’ camp, which had to have been a league away. _Falser lights there never were, though._

„If they don’t show up soon, we’ll bloody freeze to death,“ Ser Duncan growled.

Aerys turned to him, amused. „Didn’t you and Grandfather travel up north of the Neck, set? This can’t be all that bad.“

„Not in the bloody autumn, we didn’t,“ the old knight groused. „That was summer, your grace. Of course, it still snowed, but the winds weren’t so bad.“

They had no need to lower their voices. Aerys’ camp was as loud and well-lit as possible, located just far enough from the cliffs’ edges to keep from the trap being made obvious.

_If only they take the bait._

_++++_

_„Your grandfather didn’t tell me the full truth, boy.“_

_The sun was shining down at noon, giving the field outside one of the Cape’s few villages a semblance of warmth, but Edwyle Stark’s icy tone would’ve normally sent Aerys into a cold sweat. The Lord of Winterfell’s hard, windburned face showed not even a scrap of kindness or joviality._

_„Boy?“ Anger crept into Steff’s tone. „This is a prince of the blood, my lord. Watch your words.“_

„_Old Darry didn’t, and I didn’t hear it did him any ill.“ Stark was flanked by four men—greying Aleric Karstark and his fierce-looking son Rickard, sour-faced Sammel Snow, the captainof the Winterfell guards, and Edric Glover. All four looked like armoured bears in their heavy furs._

_„Did you really come all this way to preach defiance?“ Aerys answered quietly. „This army was gathered because _your _lands were being raided, my lord.“_

_„Aye, and a fat lot of bloody good it does me to be down here,“ the Warden of the North retorted. „You call this an army? I marched my men down here to join up with the riverlands, west and Reach to throw the fucking squid back into the sea. This isn’t enough men to guard a ringfort, and now I’ve left my western banners exposed. Be lucky if they don’t take the Moat and lock me south of the Neck.“_

_„Lord Stark, do not be hasty.“ Jason Lannister’s tone was soothing. „We have almost the entire Westerlands fleet here.“_

_„Aye, and where’s the Reach? Where’s the bloody royal navy? What ships do we have? You can’t tell me that you have enough men in front of my eyes to match the Greyjoys axe for sword, because I won’t fucking believe it.“_

_„We’ve more ships than if we’d left you to organise it,“ Steff snapped. „Two hundred leagues from the Wall to the Fever River and you can’t float more than six galleys for the entire coast?“_

_„We’ve no gold for that, you brat!“ Glover yelled. „Tell your grandfather to stop extorting us with those bloody grain brandy taxes if he wants us to keep up two fleets!“_

_„Silence!“ At his lord’s raised hand, the lord of Deepwood Motte wisely stopped speaking._

_„Prince Aerys, I’m going home. Id’ve helped you if there were a chance we could beat Lord Greyjoy, but I thought you were bringing more riverlanders than this. Tell His Grace not to stretch his numbers next time.“With that, Edwyle Stark turned his garron about and set off back towards his own lines, the small Northern party following him._

_As they went, a figure caught Aerys’ eye. Two women had stood at the edge of the Stark camp the entire time, both tall and dressed in simple travelling roads. The shorter of the two had since turned away, but the taller one remained, looking him directly in the eye as the small royal party began to gather itself up. Though the prince couldn’t be certain, he would swear later that day that she had actually _winked _at him._

_++++_

Aerys had seated himself at the head of a long table set up in his tent, with the lords under

„They’ve come.“

Normally, Aerys would’ve frozen at Ser Duncan’s whispered words, ordered the light doused, and then reached for a weapon. In this case, he simply nodded and raised another beaker of what looked like hard cider. His left hand went to the grip of Maekar Targaryen’s mace. It felt light now compared to the iron bars he’d spent months practising with.

Men were going to die now, under his leadership, and that was the part that frightened the prince the most.

++++

Uther Wynch could scarcely believe his luck.

The Lord of Iron Holt crept forward, doing his best not to stop on one of the many thousands of twigs littering the edge of the field—_so much fucking wood here, it really is a green land. _Ahead of him, the silhouettes of eating and drinking men were thrown into sharp relief by the firelight of the Targaryen boy’s camp. Behind and around him were several thousand other ironborn.

It had been a Stonehouse man, one of the dozens of spies who’d snuck onto the Cape while the Wynches, Sunderlys and Botleys battled hand-to-hand with the eagles, who’d heard the green boy allow himself to be provoked into a near shouting match with the sour-faced Lord Stark, and then order his men to make camp for the night along the Cape’s only road. A bare nine thousand of them all told. _He’dve been better off letting his grandpa try his hand at squid wrestling. Heh._

Uther almost swore as he trod on a cowpie, but caught himself. _No point giving us all up now. _They were almost to the edge. A bare mile to the shore, and they’d have a royal hostage, and the thinly spread „royal army“ would be eliminated. The possibilities were endless. _Hack his hand off, or his cock—no, they wouldn’t want him back then, Dagmar said that the Prince of Dragonstone’s only got one son._

_++++_

_The Sawyer paced back and forth across his tiny hovel._

_„Well?“ His obvious irritation was not to be dismissed lightly; after years hacking wood as a Goodbrother thrall, the Summer Islander had enormous arms._

_„Patience, my friend.“ The older man seated by his fire looked up before his eyes had shifted back into focus. The Sawyer shuddered; he liked the Stone Shark well enough, but the fisherman’s blank, white stare when he went elsewhere in his mind was unnerving. „They’re nearly there.“_

_„Is there really nothing we can do?“ the enormous thrall asked, his hands twisting around one another._

_„It’s all we can do to watch,“ the Stone Shark answered._

_„And your sister, you’re sure she knows the right people?“_

_„I am.“ The Shark’s tone was firm. „I wouldn’t lie to you, my friend.“ He looked to the side. „I must go back; they’re to begin.“_

_His eyes went white again._

_++++_

Uther saw a pair of bats flit over his head as he reached the edge of the campsite. He almost laughed. There was not a single guard outside at the moment. He almost let doubts into his head, but pushed them aside as he swung his axe down from his shoulders.

„WHAT IS DEAD—„

„—MAY NEVER DIE!“ At the signal, the ironborn behind him, and the other wing led by Lord Sunderly across the camp, pushed forward, their axes out and a battle cry on their lips.

Uther was barely a step into the camp before he realised the mistake he’d made.

++++

As the first pounding footsteps sounded outside the supply tent in which Aerys, Ser Duncan and a contingent of King’s Landing soldiers in Targaryen colours had hidden themselves, the prince unhooked his mace. It wasn’t needed for the moment; as soon as a mailed arm reached through the opening of the tent, a Kingslander man pinned it to the entrance post with his spear. As the hapless ironborn screamed, another soldier ran him through.

Bursting out, Aerys saw that the plan had worked almost perfectly. The ironborn had made for the giant command tent near the centre of the camp, ignoring the sleeping quarters at the edge. Now, a mass of riverlander and crownlander soldiers had fallen on them from behind, filling the air with the screams of dying men.

„FUCK Y—arrrrrrgh…..“

An ironborn had jumped on one of the Kingslander spearmen, only for Aerys to crush his skull with the giant mace. He had never killed a man before, and was surprised by how little time it was before he killed his second, a howling youth with a bloody crescent moon on his tunic. _Wynch, I think. _Then he had no time to think, as a new wave of ironborn reached them.

++++

„He’ll be overwhelmed soon.“

Barthogan Quagg’s voice was emotionless. The thin crannogman crouched beside Edwyle, Lyarra and Branda Stark in the darkness beneath a black alder. at the top of a rise. In the distance below, they could see masses of ironborn swarming towards the small camp.

„We have to give it more time,“ Lord Glover growled. „The old squid won’t come in if he thinks there are so many of us.“

Branda’s eyes traveled beyond the campsite to the distant shore. She could see the outlines of ships along one of the rocky beaches. Somewhere out there was Eldred Greyjoy; Quagg had seen him the day before from a hiding place under a bone-white driftwood trunk.

_Come on, my lord. Reach for the prize._

_+++_

The first sign of trouble came when the peripheral tents were set alight. Aerys swore as the firelight showed a new mass of ironborn charging across the meadow. _How many thousands…? _The thought nearly cost him his head, as a Harlaw man barely missed with his axe. The prince bludgeoned him to the ground with his shield, and the luckless reaver was trampled by a knot of fighting men.

They were outnumbered badly, and still no sign of Lord Greyjoy. Aerys had believed that the man was no craven, but was starting to wonder if he’d been mistaken.

+++

„We go now, or they fall,“ Aleric Karstark snarled.

„Aye.“ _If this doesn’t bring the old kraken out, nothing will. _Branda cursed her ill luck; she could handle a knife well enough, but her cousin refused to let either her or Lyarra near the frontlines. At his signal, the hill seemed to break out in small, furry trees, as thousands of northmen rose to their feet.

They were silent as they began to run. Within moments, the space was empty except for Branda and her two guards.

_Come back safe._

+++

Uther Wynch tried to struggle to his feet. His head was on fire; as he’d lunged for one of the enemy squires, what felt like the moon had caught his skull. His last sight had been a man with black and white hair, clad in black leather, striding over him, hefting an enormous mace.

_The Prince himself. I’m dying._

The Lord of Iron Holt actually got up on one knee, only to collapse within an instant. He tried to shout a warning to the iron born around him, but had no luck.

_Where are the horses?_

He had noticed as soon as he’d stepped into the camp. No bridles, no saddles, no animals of any kind.

_It’s a trap…_

Then Uther Wynch saw no more.

++++

Aerys was in trouble.

He’d been separated from Ser Duncan in the course of the fight.Maekar Targaryen’s mace was dripping red now, and yet the ironborn kept on coming. _There’s more than we thought. Did they empty the bloody isles? But not one Greyjoy yet. _All the designs he’d seen were of Iron Islands noble houses—scythes, grey hands, horns, drowned men, shoals of fish, blazing braziers—but not one had the golden kraken on black that they were waiting for.

He tripped over a severed arm, but managed to roll into a screaming reaver’s legs. The middle of the camp was unrecognisable; heaps of bodies lay around the trampled fire embers, and all of the tents had fallen. He couldn’t tell how many of his own men were left.

Aerys fell again as a dying Blackwood man-at-arms staggered back into him, landing heavily on another body. _Can’t even touch the ground again. _Before he could reach his mace, a foot kicked it away. A small knot of reavers had surrounded him. The biggest, a young man with a many-headed snake on his tunic, hefted his axe over his head.

_What is that sound?_

++++

Duncan was caught in blind panic. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had lost his sword, his prince and half of his shield. Surrounded by ironborn, he struck back and forth with a splintered spear.

_Aerys! Where in the Seven Hells…_

He went down as an axe caught the back of his armour, tearing the remainder of his white cloak off. _All I can see are reavers._

++++

_The Stone Shark’s eyes flew open again. „It looks to be lost.“_

_The Sawyer was only stopped from smashing his table by the other thrall’s next words._

_„It isn’t.“_

++++

The Starks hit the camp like a wild winter storm.

Duncan learned later that the man who helped back to his feet was Artos Liddle, Lord Aleric Karstark’s master at arms. When he rose, the reavers were nearly gone. Looking around in desperation, he saw Aerys, with his mace back in his hand and a half-circle of dead reavers, shot through with arrows. As their surviving comrades prepared to charge the prince, the biggest sword Duncan had ever seen brought half of them down, cutting their mail like butter.

Edwyle Stark had arrived, along with his house guards.

„Where….Greyjoy…“

Aerys was still badly disorientated. Trying to turn to Lord Stark, he collapsed again.

„No sign yet,“ the Warden of the North said absentmindedly, stabbing a writhing reaver through the chest as he spoke. „Sammel, give his grace a hand up, will you?“

„There’s a sign now.“

Edmund Blackwood looked terrible, his helmet dented and his sword nearly snapped fully in two, but his arm was steady as he pointed outwards. Yet another wave of ironborn were spreading out to surround the small knot of riverlanders, crownlanders and northerners.

Their banners were black, with a kraken on them.

+++

_„He can’t pull back now,“ the Shark muttered. „Lord Greyjoy’s on the battlefield, with his boy.“_

_„Finally.“ The Sawyer’s hands were already itching for his axe. _Maybe just another hour, and this will be done.

And then…then the real fight begins.

+++

As Eldred Greyjoy strode forward, somebody shot a blazing arrow at him. A guard caught it on his shield.

„I came to give you a chance to surrender!“ the Lord Reaper roared.

„Then raise a truce flag, you treacherous squid,“ Aerys snarled. Deep down, he was frightened. Eldred and Quellon Greyjoy were both nearly Ser Duncan’s height, and clad in heavy mail. The men behind them were fresh and ready for combat. At the prince’s signal, the northerners readied their spears.

„We have you surrounded, lizard.“ Quellon Greyjoy’s tone was firmer and calmer then his father’s. „Surrender yourself to us and the wolves can go. Else, their death is on your hands.“

„Go bugger yourself,“ Lord Stark snarled. Edging his way through the settling shield wall, he stood a few paces from Greyjoy. _It would be terrifying if he didn’t come up to the man’s tits._

„Ah, the old wolf himself,“ Eldred sneered. „I’ve waited a long time for this, Stark. I think I’ll take your cousins as salt wives once we’re done with you, and keep that sword for myself. Consider it payback.“

„Your father died like a dog, and so will you,“ Aleric Karstark said flatly.

„That’s why I want the sword, old man,“ the reaver replied grimly. „I’ll melt it down.“

„You think I killed your father with Ice?“ If Aerys hadn’t known better, he would’ve sworn a grin was creeping over the Lord of Winterfell’s bearded lips. „I didn’t carry it then, Greyjoy. Has nobody told you how the Last Reaver died?“

„He wasn’t the last,“ Quellon growled. „Here we stand.“

„Strange choice of words,“ Ser Duncan muttered to Aerys.

„Then it’ll be you who are the last.“ Stark’s tone was even. „Five hours long we fought with your father’s men at the mouth of the Fever, and my sword was broken off to the hilt by the time I faced him.“

Edmund Blackwood was staring at the man. From the expressions of those around him, Aerys realised that Edwyle Stark had never spoken about that day before.

„All I had left was my shield, and that wasn’t enough against his axe. But we fought on a ship’s deck. I knocked him down, and took an oar.“

There was real hate in the northerner’s eyes now.

„I beat your father to death, squid, just like men have been whispering for years now. I shattered his nose, his eyebrows, his teeth. I scattered his brains and his skull across the deck of his ship. He looked like something from a butcher’s when I was done. One blow for every man, woman and child you salt-encrusted filth have stolen, raped and killed from my western shores. So if you’re man enough, _come and see if you can do the same._“

The reaver’s face had grown redder and redder as his opponents spoke. With a wordless scream, he swung his axe over his shoulder.

„Short-tempered as I’d heard,“ Aerys said quietly.

„But this is over.“

And then the horns began to sound.

++++

_„It’s done there,“ the Stone Shark said quietly._

_„Let it begin here.“_

_++++_

Green, gold, red, white, black. The wings of cavalry that burst forward from the thin woods surrounding the battlefield were as colourful as the Seven Kingdoms themselves. The leaders were a group to be feared: Jason Lannister, Ser Jon Arryn, Stefan Baratheon…and Ser Gerold Hightower. The Reach had come.

As the ironborn began to turn, the riders began to circle them. A first wave, westermen all, pierced the ironborn ranks and turned to the right. Within moments, the Greyjoys were trapped; the greenlander cavalry were racing around their edges, coming closer by the moment and pinning them in, while sorties of knights wreaked havoc within their ranks. After a long fight on the ground, the horses settled things quickly. Within moments, the outer wing had spiralled all the way inward, clearing the ironborn away from the Stark shield wall. The stragglers were picked off by Aerys’s surviving command.

Eldred Greyjoy’s end was short and brutal. As the Lord Reaper of Pyke howled for his men to rally, a Hightower knight’s lance caught him in the throat. As blood bubbled from the towering man’s lips, young Rickard Karstark cut his way through a pair of Greyjoy guards, and hacked their master’s head off with a cracked, jagged axe that he’d clearly taken from a corpse. With that, Aerys felt relief.

_It’s over._

++++

„It worked perfectly.“

A small party made its way towards the shore; Ser Duncan was too injured to come, so Aerys was guarded by Steff and Rickard Karstark, who hadn’t bothered to clean off his axe. Beside them rode a stocky knight in purple and green: Garse Redwyne, second son of the Lord of the Arbor.

„Better than we thought even, your grace.“ Ser Garse cursed as he ducked a tree branch. „They all came into shore, and didn’t bother to check the next bloody cove over. We ringed them in along with the lions and the Oldtown fleet, and then set fire to them.“

They came around a bend, and Aerys swore aloud.

The cove was lit with flames. For nearly as far as he could see, longships were burning, many of them collapsing as ash, with a hiss, into the cold waters. Beyond the opening floated dromonds and galleys by the hundreds, all of them from the West and Reach.

„Ser…how many ships were there here? Exactly?“ Steff seemed shocked.

„Must have been about three hundred.“

„That’s nearly the entire strength of the islands,“ Aerys said quietly. „They can’t have more than fifty longships left, the ones who didn’t sail.“

Ser Garse gaped. „Is this a jest?“

„It’s a promise, ser.“ Once again, Aerys’ hand drifted to his weapon.

„The Iron Islands are now defenceless.“

+++

_The Sawyer ran, his axe in his hand. Behind him was a howling mob of thralls, each with a hoe or axe or shovel or torch to hand._

_The time to hide was over._


	6. Chapter 6

_The wind was warm that morning, a last kiss of summer. Autumn would be coming to the Seven Kingdoms soon, and Rhaella knew she would miss the sun on her face. _Although not the smell of King’s Landing. _Thankfully, they had come a ways outside the city to greet the party coming from Raventree Hall._

_Her mother smiled a little, her eyes closing against the light. „I wouldn’t mind if your brother were a little late, to tell the truth, Rhae. I don’t fancy going inside for a while.“_

_„Nor I“ her father added. Prince Jaehaerys never fared well in the cold, but he looked hale and hearty today, his arm wrapped around his wife’s shoulders._

_„I fear you’re out of luck, your Graces.“ Ser Calvan Blanetree had come up besides them. „Your uncle’s banners have been spotted down the road.“_

_„Uncle Ben always was quite prompt,“ Princess Shaera murmured. The small royal party rose from their seats beneath the oak trees lining the kingsroad. Grandfather was absent today, busy at a meeting of the small council._

_„There they are!“_

_The Blackwood party that rounded the bend was small indeed, maybe fifty riders. At the head rode Lord Benjicot Blackwood, her grandmother’s brother. He was flanked by two of his sons, each in black and silver. Rhaella’s great-aunt had died in the spring, and it seemed to have worn on the man’s face; Lord Benjicot was barely sixty, but looked far older. Still, he was of a height with his sons._

Sons? Wait, I thought that the second one was away at the Banefort. And where’s Ae?

_Dismounting, Lord Blackwood warmly embraced his niece and nephew. _He could never stay angry at family long, if I remember right. _The man had been wroth when Rhaella’s parents married, but you would never know it now. One of his sons approached Rhae._

_„Cousin.“ He had a deep, rich voice. „Do you remember my name?“_

_She smiled. „I wouldn’t go and forget it, Rob.“_

_„It seems she hasn’t.“ The second Blackwood boy stepped forward, removing his hood. „But she doesn’t seem to recognise me.“_

_She gasped out loud._

Gods, is that…

“_Aerys?“_

_His hair was cut short now, and the colour, she realised, had changed; Aerys had always been Targaryen silver, but it was now shot through with black. His face was much wider, with a heavier jaw. And above all, her brother was _bigger. _Aerys had been slender as a boy. The man in front of her had grown nearly a foot, and had arms like a blacksmith’s. His expression was new, as well; her brother had always had a thin smirk on his face as a young boy, and a hint of arrogance to his voice. They had been replaced by a real smile, and friendliness._

_„Ae?“ Her father was evidently just as shocked. „I….I didn’t recognise you…“_

„Damn _it!“ Rob Blackwood growled, reaching into his doublet and removing a small purse. He extracted a handful of coins and passed them to his father._

_„I told you it wasn’t a good idea,“ Aerys muttered humorously._

_„I know, I know…“ Rob shook his head. „Pardon us, your graces, but my lord father and I had a bet as to whether you’d recognise him. I lost.“_

_„He grew a _foot, _boy, and a few stone too,“ Lord Blackwood laughed. „Did you really think they’d make the connection that fast?“_

_“He’s got _purple eyes, _father,” Rob grumbled._

_“And a new sigil,” Jaehaerys said quietly. Rhae’s eyes flicked to the front of her brother’s tunic. Somebody had sewn a white dragon over his heart, with red eyes._

_“New to me, anyway,“ he replied._

_„Oh, I wouldn’t have forgotten that one, believe me,“ her father muttered. „Your grandfather will not have, either.“_

_Lord Benjicot’s jaw tightened. „Old history, your grace. In any event, it suits him well enough. We ought to get going, no?“_

_„I’ll miss this sun,“ her mother groaned as they mounted._

_It wasn't until they were almost back at the Red Keep that Rhaella realised why Father had been concerned over the new sigil at Aerys' breast._

_It was the same one that had belonged to Brynden Rivers, her great-granduncle and great-grandfather's Hand, whom Grandfather had sent to the Wall for killing one of the Blackfyre Pretenders under a banner of truce. _ He was a Blackwood too. 

This'll be an interesting family dinner.

++++

Rhaella and Prince Duncan had joined the main riverlords’ host just north of Harrenhal, two days after the Battle on the Cape of Eagles. She had been struck dumb with shock when her grandfather read the raven’s message aloud from the Iron Throne. _My brother defeated an entire ironborn house, practically outnumbered. _One thing was for certain; the number of lords who would cross King Aegon had dropped. The Tullys had gathered a full-sized army when she met them, a far cry from the handful of houses that had ridden to Seagard when called. The Darrys were not among them, and she suspected they would be called before the Iron Throne before the year was out. Her grandfather had seen dozens of uprisings in his time, most set off by his reforms. _He’s always been merciful with them once defeated, except for House Peake. It might be different this time._

The army gathered at the walls of Seagard was enormous. Nearly the full strength of the Vale and Westerlands had come, along with half of House Stark’s men, the stormlands/crownlands army that had marched with Aerys from King’s Landing, and the full force of Houses Hightower and Redwyne. Young Leyton Hightower had been knighted by Ser Duncan the Tall himself after cutting down Lord Harlaw’s house guards singlehandedly, and the Redwynes had finished off every single ironman fleeing the battlefield. She wondered briefly if her family would suggest a betrothal for her before this war was out.

As she expected, she found her brother in the Seagard godswood. Aerys had made a custom of praying once in the morning, once around sun fall, ever since his return from Raventree Hall.

_We’ll see how long that can last. _Rhaella had heard her grandparents quarrelling over this once; Aegon was happy that his grandson had matured in his time away, but feared that most of the Seven Kingdoms would never accept a king who followed the old gods. Her grandmother had pointed out that the Faith of the Seven had recognised her as queen—to which the king responded gloomily that she, at least, had been crowned in the manner of the Seven. Somehow, Rhaella couldn’t imagine Aerys being anointed by the High Septon.

_Certainly not at the moment. _The prince had sunk to one knee in front of the largest living weirwood, his eyes closed. But not his ears; as Rhaella walked around the small, dark pool at the heart of the godswood, she saw a smile cross his lips. Her brother rose after a moment.

„Rhae.“ His voice was warm as he embraced her. „I trust you traveled safe?“

„Oh, not so badly,“ she smiled. „Bit quiet, though, even for a large party.“

„Did you speak with Lord Tully?“ he inquired, the warmth fading from his voice.

„Briefly. I gave him several chances to apologise, and he took none.“ She sighed. „Truth be told, Ae, I don’t know why the riverlords have even come. They were as polite as they needed to be around me, but most kept their distance.“

„Plunder, dear sister.“ His tone was bitter. „They think that there’s riches without end stashed under the Iron Islands’ keeps, and that Grandfather won’t begrudge them a little looting. I like young Norbert Vance well enough, but his father and uncles speak of nothing but gold and Valyrian steel.“

„Are there iron born houses with Valyrian blades?“ she asked, confused. _Ironic if they have them and we don’t. Damned Blackfyres._

„Some idiotic Frey knight started a rumour that the Greyjoys stole a cache of them from Old Ghis,“ the prince growled. „It’s not the unlikeliest thing I’ve ever heard, but it’s brought every half-rate hedge knight on the Trident’s banks up here.“

Rhaella smiled a little. „No one that I spoke to thought well of the Freys, brother.“

„Their lord breeds like a fucking rabbit,“ Aerys groaned. She had forgotten how foul-mouthed he’d become after time with their granduncles. „His second son took an axe to the head at the Cape. Jason Lannister’s squire he was, and meant to marry Lord Tytos’ daughter.“

Rhaella’s mouth opened slightly. „She was going to be married to Lord Frey’s _second son? Lord Tytos’ _daughter?“

„Ser Jason told me that the night it was announced, Tywin spoke out against it. All of nine years old, he was. And then when he showed up a few days ago, I gave him the news.“ Aerys shuddered. „Rhae, _never let him smile at you. _I’d rather see a hornet in my bedchamber than Ser Tywin trying not to smile.“

„Your Graces?“

Rhaella started, and turned around. A tall young woman was leaning against one of the weirwoods, clad in black and silver. A few steps behind her was a slender man in furs and iron, an axe slung over his back/

“Lady Stark.” Aerys nodded his head. “Are we starting that blasted meeting?”

She laughed—_more like a man than a woman, _Rhaella thought. “That’s about what me cousin said when he was told, that and a number of things I won’t be after repeating.” She dipped her head towards Rhae. “I’m Branda Stark, if it please ye. Granddaughter of the late Lord Beron Stark of Winterfell, niece of the late Lords Donnor and Willam, cousin of Lord Edwyle.”

“Did you meet all of them?” Rhae asked drily, as they began to walk towards the Booming Tower.

The Stark girl snorted. “I see you’ve got wits to ye. Only half, I’m afraid. Grandfather died a good twenty-five years before I was born, and Uncle Donnor didn’t make it through the redcough in 221.He hosted _your _grandfather at Winterfell, though, when he lived.”

“You were telling me Lord Edwyle was still a baby then,” Aerys interjected.

“Ayah, and he bit your giant’s finger. Or tried to. His teeth hadna come in yet.”

“Ser Duncan’s a normal man,” Aerys said wearily; Rhae sensed they had had this conversation before.

“We both know full well he canna be.” Branda was clearly comfortable talking to the prince, and his sister realised that the woman’s accent was becoming stronger and stronger. _Like she was keeping it down around me. _“Brandon swears it isna possible for a man to get that high up.” They had reached the edge of the godswood, and the foot of the Booming Tower.

“I told ye it was _unlikely,” _the Stark girl’s companion interjected. He had a narrow face, with reddish-brown hair, a small beard, and bright little eyes; Rhae was reminded of a fox. “Impossible’s sommat else. And here I was thinking you was smart for a Flint.”

Branda swatted him on the shoulder absentmindedly, climbing ahead to mutter something into Aerys’ ear as they began their way up the stairs. _Interesting. _The Targaryen princess hung back a moment, letting the slight man—_Brandon, his name must be Brandon_—go ahead of her. She could see the house design on his tunic now; six spiky green weeds.

“I thought she was a Stark?” she said quietly into his ear.

“Aya.”

“So why did you call her a.. Flint?”

“Her ma’s a First Flint, from up the mountains towards the Gift, yer Grace.” Brandon made no effort to change his pattern of speech. “I’m a Norrey, from about twenty leagues northeastward o’ Breakstone Hill, where Branda’s second cousin has his seat.”

“I thought the Flints were from the coast,” Rhaella said, confused.

“The Widow’s Watchers, aye, and the Fingermen too. But they’re First Flint get far back. Our lands are poor and cold in winter, yer Grace, and a great many of the second sons and daughters leave every time it gets cold. The Flints have worse land than most, so they’ve lost more men.”

“Is..is that why you’re here?” They were getting close to the top of the tower.

The slight Northerner laughed. “I’m no’ a second son, yer Grace. I’ll be the chief o’ the Norreys when me granddad passes, but I’m in service to Lord Stark at present. Best to have fewer mouths to feed up towards the mountains, you see, when the snows fly. His master at arms’s a Liddle, came down for the same reason, although his own brother was the Liddle—the chief,” he added hastily, turning and seeing Rhaella’s puzzled face. “Edwyle Stark will call me granddad Lord Norrey, but he’s just “The Norrey” to us. Mind you, Lord Edwyle himself is “the Stark” if you’re after asking a clansman.”

“What would my grandfather be?” Rhaella said softly, as Aerys pulled the door open. A cacophony of arguing voices spilled out. _It begins._

“A dragon. We’ve always called the King in King’s Landing ‘the old dragon’, ever since Torrhen bent the knee.” Brandon lingered on the doorstep a moment.“Your brother’s the White Dragon to us, because o’ his sigil, your uncle’s the Blue Dragon because his woman’s from Oldstones, and I’ll see if I canna come up with a name for you.”

She blushed a little as the two stepped inside.

+++

„If we do not send terms, we’ll have to spill blood, my lords. That’s all there is to it.“

Duncan Targaryen was presiding over the meeting, clad in his usual mix of Blackwood and Targaryen colours. For all that he had given up the title of Prince of Dragonstone before Rhae was born, the Prince of Dragonflies was still a formidable warrior, quick with a laugh or jape, and well-liked by many—_excepting the river lords. _Especially Steffon, who had often cracked that if his uncle hadn’t broken his betrothal agreement, he himself wouldn’t exist.

„And then what?“ growled a lean, hungry-looking man in furs. _That must be Lord Edwyle Stark. _„Give the islands back to the bloody Greyjoys?“

„Agreed,“ a tall blond lord in red and gold added. _And Ser Jason Lannister, I would guess. _„Prince Duncan, these scum have plagued both of our folk, and the Reach and riverlands besides, since time immemorial. No house has been as disloyal as the Greyjoys. It has to stop. We have the fleet to invade. Give the word, and we’ll sweep the ironborn into the sea.“

„This would be costly, my lords,“ a younger man with straw-yellow hair, wearing the Arryn falcon on his halberk, interjected. „The lives, the men…“

„It doesn’t concern you, Ser Jon,“ Lord Edwyle muttered sharply. „The Vale forces present were small, and arrived late. It doesn’t make a difference if you return home. Same with all of you from the east. Let the North, West and Reach do what ought to have been done decades past.“

„So you can cut up the islands like a cake?“ Lord Tully huffed. „I think not.“

„Perhaps those who paid the blood price for this victory should be those who decide the aftermath,“ a heavyset northman in red retorted. „Not latecomers.“

_„Enough, _Lord Glover,“ Aerys said wearily. Her brother had already taken up a place besides their uncle. „Lord Tully has a point. What is to be done with the Iron Islands if House Greyjoy is no more?“

„The Greyjoys are just the head of the snake.“ A young woman standing besides Lord Edwyle leaned forward. She had a stark’s long face, and resembled Branda more than a little. _Ae said she had a sister, didn’t he? _„The rest of those houses are no’ much better, your Graces. Leave the ironborn in place, and they’ll strike back at us once you’ve gone. We needs must wipe the lot off those rocks.“

„They’ll be left homeless if we do that, Lady Lyarra,“ Ser Jon said quietly. „I doubt his Grace woulds want any of his subjects starving in the winter cold.“

„Many on the Stony Shore already will, ser, since the bloody ironborn set their homes aflame,“ she replied. „If they don’t wish to suffer the stings, they oughtna grasp the nettle.“

„We could eliminate the ironborn noble houses, at least,“ Steffon added. „Their smallfolk might accept peace.“

„And give them the land, I suppose?“ Lord Tully snorted. „Might as well leave it for the sea storms. Smallfolk are about useless without a firm hand, young Baratheon. You do take after your grandfather, I suppose.“

„The best solution may be to name new houses,“ Aerys interjected before Steffon could retort angrily. „Knights and second sons from many regions. Your Brynden could have a keep of his own, Lord Tully.“

„Which one?“ Greed washed out the riverlord’s contempt. His son Hoster, a burly man with curly red hair, leaned in a little.

„If you’re expecting Harlaw or Lordsport, you should’ve come when you were called,“ Lyarra snapped. „The Lonely Light will be more than adequate, I would think.“

„If you were a man, I’d strike you for that,“ Tully snapped.

„If either of you were men, you wouldna cowered at the idea of a fight, would ye?“ Lyarra’s face was even. Behind her, Edwyle Stark clearly had no intention of stepping in.

_She’s a pawn for him, _Rhaella realised. _Lord Tully is embarrassed, and Lord Stark still appears rational and calm. Anything Lyarra says can be ascribed to a woman’s weakness or a short temper, but it won’t affect him directly. Clever indeed._

„Do you take this for a tavern?“ Uncle Duncan demanded, a scowl rising across his face. „Calm yourselves, the both of you!“

The Tullys reluctantly nodded their heads, although Rhaella shuddered to see the utter hate in Hoster Tully’s bright blue eyes.

„I think Prince Aerys has a point,“ Ser Leyton Hightower interjected. „Regardless of who they may be, we ought to have new lords replace the great houses of the islands. None of them are innocent, none of them would give up their ‚old way‘ any quicker than the krakens.“

_I like this one. _Ser Leyton’s words had most of the council chamber nodding. _I’ll have a word with Grandfather. _Rhaella was hardly ready to marry yet, but she was pragmatic enough to know that it would have to be to a great lord, no matter how squirmy Brandon Norrey’s twinkling gaze left her. An even-tempered man with a persuasive manner, set to inherit one of the greatest lordships in the Seven Kingdoms would be quite adequate.

As Aerys opened his mouth to speak, somebody hammered on the door.

Ser Patrek Mallister sighed. „I told them not to interrupt us. One moment.“ He opened the door to reveal Ser Kyle Mallister, his cousin. _Isn’t he the commander of the Seagard Purple Cloaks?_

„There’s a ship in the harbour, Pat.“ Ser Kyle was clearly out of breath. „From the Iron Islands. Peace banner.“

The lanky knight frowned. „The Greyjoy boy’s men?“

„We are not.“ A man stepped out from behind Ser Kyle.

Rhaella started. The man was a Summer Islander, with light brown skin and curly black hair, and clad in rough seaman’s leather. Beside him stood a woman with short-cut hair, jet-black eyes and a hard-set jawline, dressed the same.

„Then who, exactly, are you?“ Her uncle stepped forward. The room behind him had fallen silent.

„I do not remember the name from when I was born,“ the man answered. „They call me the Sawyer.“

„And I, Lady Bluewood,“ his companion added. She pulled up her sleeve.

Aerys swore. A brand had been placed above the woman’s wrist, the shape of a drinking horn.

„You’ve been slaves,“ Branda said quietly.

Lady Bluewood nodded. „Not quite. Thralls. I was on Pyke, in the fields of Lord Botley. The Sawyer was bound to House Goodbrother, on Great Wyk.“

„Did they send you to treat with us?“ Lord Tully scoffed.

The Sawyer fixed him with an icy stare. „We sent them to the bottom of Ironman’s Bay, redhead. Every Goodbrother we could find, every Botley, the little Greyjoy who would’ve grown into a fearsome kraken, the men who defended him, the reavers who carried us off and burned our villages and took our children away once they no longer nursed. We rose once we’d heard that the best axes in the Iron Islands lay dead on the Cape of Eagles.“

The room was silent with shock.

„On every island?“ Aerys said quietly.

„Not all of them had enough of us. Pyke besides Castle Pyke, all of the Wyks, half of Harlaw, Orkmont are ours. The ironborn fled to Saltcliffe, Blacktyde, the Lonely Light. We traded our captives for our brothers and sisters in chains on the other islands,“ Lady Bluewood said.

„And now you’re here,“ Leyton Hightower murmured. „What for?“

„To treat,“ the Sawyer rumbled. „We have a common enemy. Or had.“

„You wish for new lords?“ Stefan interjected.

„We’ve had enough of lords, boy“ his companion replied. „We worked that land for centuries. We will keep it.“

„You’re smallfolk, for gods’ sake!“ Hoster Tully burst out.

The Sawyer stared at the young knight until he looked at his shoes. „Aye, lad. We are. We’re small in your eyes. Not so much in our own, and not to the reaver scum we put at the bottom of the bay.“

„Are you to be independent, then?“ Steffon inquired, real curiosity in his voice.

„We’re too small for that.“ The Sawyer turned to Aerys, and knelt.

„Young dragon, we’ve heard of what your grandfather did when men and women nearly starved in the North, what he did for smallfolk across the realm. We know that without what you did, we’d all still be in chains. So on behalf of the full Folksmoot of the freed folk of Pyke, the Wyks and West Harlaw, I offer you our direct allegiance. We swear it to you as one people, one lordship of smallfolk. We will hold our lands as one, we will pay our taxes to you as one, we will select one freeholder to speak to you for us. To Dragonstone we pledge our faith. Hearth and heart and harvest we yield up to you, my king. Our swords and spears and arrows are yours to command. Grant mercy to our weak, help to our helpless, and justice to all, and we shall never fail you. We swear it by earth and water. We swear it by bronze and iron. We swear it by ice and fire.

Aerys seemed struck dumb.

„Thralls or not, you killed your lords,“ Hoster Tully cried. „There must be—„

Before Rhaella could speak, Leyton Hightower stepped forward.

„You _dare?“_

The room gasped as he strode to within a foot of the heir to Riverrun.

„Your smallfolk, Ser Tully, are free to leave if they will,“ the young knight snarled. „These folk were _thralls. _As barbaric a custom as can be found anywhere in Westeros, little better than pure slavery.“

He turned to Aerys.

„Your Grace, generations of my family have been called to the Faith. And there may be a Father above us all, but we are his children, not his property. My House stood by King Jaehaerys when he abolished the First Night, an offence against my Faith. On behalf of the Hightowers, I urge you to accept this man’s offer.“

Now it was Rhaella’s turn to be struck dumb. _I don’t understand. The Hightowers gave so much; they could’ve claimed the whole of Pyke if they’d wanted it. Now he wants to give it away?_

Then it struck her. _He doesn’t want it. Oldtown is rich enough. Leyton Hightower has demonstrated his piety and sense of justice for all to see, and he’ll probably still be able to claim one of those other islands—and the lion’s share of trade with these folk. Well played._

„Agreed,“ Garse Redwyne interjected. „The Seven Who Are One tell us that the meek will inherit. It seems that today, they have.“

„Thralldom is an abomination,“ Lord Stark added. Besides him, Jason Lannister nodded too.

_This is the second time the Tullys have been shamed today, _Rhaella thought grimly. The trouts’ greed had caught up with them.

„On behalf of my grandfather, Aegon, Fifth of His Name, of the House Targaryen, King of the First Men, the Andals and the Rhoynar, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, I, Aerys, a prince of House Targaryen, accept your offer. Your folk shall be sworn to us directly, as with the Crownlands houses. The remaining lands of the Iron Islands shall be yielded up to loyal houses, those that fought with us in this war.“


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to change some tags for this chapter. If reading depictions of sexual violence is difficult or traumatic for you, I would caution you to skip the section that begins „Once they returned to the Booming Tower…“ I am unlikely to write its like again in this story, so please don’t let it put you off.

Seagard was quite different that evening.

Branda had slipped out of the castle once the meeting had wrapped up, Lyarra and Brandon Norrey close behind her. All that remained after Prince Aerys took the freed folk’s oath of allegiance was horse trading and arguments: eventually, the remaining Iron Islands had been allocated to the houses that had stood with the crown against the Greyjoys. The Hightowers had, with the Sawyer’s encouragement, claimed the eastern half of Harlaw, an island currently divided between former thralls and the surviving reavers from House Harlaw itself. The Lannisters took Saltcliffe, the closest island to their own lands after Pyke. The Redwynes claimed Blacktyde, the northernmost of the large islands, after Edwyle Stark surprised everyone by asking for lordship over the Lonely Light instead. _For Ric and Lya’s younger son, I don’t doubt. _Branda wondered idly if her cousin would need a castellan for the remote archipelago.

But for the moment, her attention was consumed by the freed folk. Just under a hundred of them had sailed as emissaries from Great Wyk, and were enjoying the festivities in the centre of Seagard Town. Many were Summer Islanders like the Sawyer, or Ghiscari, and attracted stares from the riverlanders. A few were from the northern mountains or Bear Island, carried off by reavers as children. One of them, a middle-aged Wull woman from the Orkmont mines, with big hands and a crooked smile, was quite clearly interested in Branda, especially after they began speaking in the Old Tongue together. They eventually had to head back towards the Booming Tower, but not before the woman—_Marna, like Ed’s wife—_whispered the name of her boarding house into Branda’s ear. _Perhaps later. They’ll be here a few days, I don’t doubt._

The road to Seagard Castle’s gates was lined with the Mallister banners. Ondrew Mallister had died just four months before, after a hunting wound became infected. Ser Patrek was serving as castellan until his nephew Jason reached majority. _He’ll leave him a good inheritance to continue with, truth be told. _The Mallisters and Blackwoods were, maybe with the Vances of Atranta, the last great riverlands houses in favour with the crown. The eagles had fought the ironborn bravely and asked for little at the end save expanded fishing rights in Ironman’s Bay. At Leyton Hightower’s insistence, they had accepted the lands of Harridan Hill as well, giving them a port on East Harlaw.

The other riverlands houses, though…Branda had seen looks of real disgust on many lords’ faces at Hoster Tully’s outburst, and heard many taunts directed at the perceived cowardice of the Trident’s knights and smallfolk from northerner, Reachman and westerner alike—always with a hastily muttered exemption for „the eagles and the ravens“. And that was before the Darrys were weighed in, their lord’s continuing defiance a dark cloud over the celebrations at Seagard.

Lyarra seemed to sense what she was talking about as they passed under the Eaglet’s Gate at the northern edge of the castle. „I’m no’ so certain that young Tully will be gracing us with his presence at table this evening.“

„He’d have cause,“ Brandon muttered, his hand creeping instinctively to his axe. „That was an ill thing for ye to do in front of all the realm’s lairds.“

„If he wants to fight for his honour, let him,“ Branda growled, the memory of dozens of northern corpses at the Cape still fresh in her memory. „I canna imagine there’d be none who’d fight in Lyarra’s name.“

„I could beat him myself,“ her sister retorted. „Canna have had tha’ much practice.“

++++

Once they reached the Booming Tower, the Stark sisters made their way to the chamber Ser Patrek had allocated them, near the top. Brandon sighed as he leaned against the doorjamb. „If ye’ve got tae change yer clothes, try not tae take half a bloody hour.“

Branda swatted him absentmindedly on the arm as she reached to pull the door over. „We’ve only to get some a’ this dust off our faces.“

As she bent over the washbasin, she heard Lyarra begin to brush her hair. „I’m no’ looking forward to seeing Rickard again, truth be told, if he’s still moping.“

„He’s a boy still,“ Branda replied, scrubbing the Seagard dust off her face. _Canna get rid o’ this salt smell, though. _„He’ll get like tha’ at times.“

„I wasna like that when I was—„

Brandon groaned loudly.

„What the—„Branda whipped around as the door opened, and the heir to House Norrey collapsed onto the floor, a gaping wound through his throat. A thickset man with brown hair stepped over him, followed by a thinner man, and then Hoster Tully.

„Don’t make a sound,“ the heir to Riverrun warned, „or you join him.“

Striding forward, he grabbed Lyarra by the front of her tunic. Branda lunged for him, only for the fat man to grab her by the hair.

„You shamed me in front of the whole realm, you savage,“ Tully hissed, shoving Lyarra back onto the bed.

„Fuck—you—„ Lyarra tried to push him off, only for the young man to begin ripping at her robes.

„Take my honour, I’ll take yours. Let’s see how that wolf likes you once I’ve planted a trout in your hairy belly. Grell, you can have her sister.“

The fat man pinned her to the ground, his hands clawing at her front. Panicking, Branda smacked him on the back of the head, only for him to drive an elbow into her gut. _Wait. Don’t panic. Cant panic. _The moment her breath returned, the Stark girl lunged for Grell with her teeth, tearing into his ear.

As the man screamed like a stuck pig, Branda drew his sword and jammed it through his throat. Rolling out from under the dying knight, she rose to meet the second Tully guardsman, whose bowels she opened with a flick of her wrist.

„The fuck—„ Tully turned around.

It was the only chance Lyarra needed. The younger Stark sister planted her foot on her tormentor’s side and shoved him backwards. The heir to Riverrun grabbed at a side table to prevent himself from falling. Screaming an obscenity in the Old Tongue, Branda drove the sword through his nose and out the back of his skull.

_„AAAAAAAAAaaaaaarrrrrrrrgggggghhhhhhhhhhhh………“_

Hoster Tully’s hands scrabbled on the sword’s blade for a moment, before his brain gave out.

Branda’s trembling hands dropped the sword as she sank to the bloodstained floor alongside Lyarra. Her sister’s burst of strength had abandoned her, and she had wrapped her own hands around her head.

„I couldn’t…he didn’t…Rickard….“

_He would never!_

„Ly, Rickard would never give you up. Even if that bastard _had _done…that,“ Branda whispered into her sister’s ear. „And I know he didn’t.“

_„Branda! LYARRA!“ _Somebody was hammering on the door.

_Edwyle…._“You can come in,“ she called.

Her cousin burst into the room with Ice drawn, Rickard Karstark and Artos Liddle at his heels. „What on earth…“ He gasped in shock looking at the body on the floor. „Brandon—what happened to him? Is that—the Tully boy? Did his guards—„

Branda shook her head. „He——he tried to rape Lya.“

For the rest of her life, she would remember the expression that crossed the Warden of the North’s face at that moment. Edwyle’s skin colour drained to white, followed by red and then purple. His eyes seemed about to bulge out of his head. With a wordless scream, he turned and strode out of the room, Artos Liddle following him. Rickard Karstark seemed frozen.

As Lya began to cry softly, the shock finally catching up to her, the heir to Karhold shook himself out of whatever had taken hold of him. „Lady Stark, you can’t stay here. My chambers are a floor beneath. Come on.“ The last words were spoken softly, as Branda tugged her sister onto her feet.

When they reached the door of the rooms allocated to the men of Karhold, Lyarra collapsed again. Rickard helped her across the doorway, snapping orders to a shocked maidservant. His sword drawn, the boy stepped to the door. „I’ll be here, my ladies.“

He closed it behind him. From below, Branda could hear yells in the courtyard.

_Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods……_

++++

„You handled the whole thing well, I think.“ Prince Duncan poured his nephew a small beaker of green tea. They would have their fill of harder drink that night at the feast, and Aerys never wanted to be hungover again. _The morning after Uncle Ben’s nameday was hell._

„The west will be at peace a while, anyway,“ the younger prince murmured, taking a sip. _This is excellent, actually. Hmmm. _„Once Lord Tytos restores order, that is. Again.“

„His son’s a good hand with a blade,“ Ser Duncan interjected. „Shame he couldnt stay for the talks.“

„Aye.“ An outburst of outlaws had forced Ser Tywin to cut his stay short, bringing a contingent of westermen back south with him to deal with disorder by the Banefort. It was the fourth time this year that unrest had roiled the Westerlands, following uprisings by two knightly houses, and the murder of Marbrand men by knights in service to House Reyne. Aerys was determined to have words with Ser Tywin about this the next time they met. _If his father can’t keep the peace, somebody must._

His musings were suddenly interrupted by a yell from outside the solar. Frowning, Aerys turned to the window…only to gasp in horror.

The courtyard had filled with shoving, shouting men, many of them drawing swords and hefting pikes before the prince’s eyes. Several of them already lay immobile on the ground. At the centre, a ring had formed around two men: Edwyle Stark had his great sword fully unsheathed, already dripping blood, while Theomore Tully was reaching for his own. Ser Patrek was trying to push his way through the throng to them, but was badly outnumbered.

„NO!“ Aerys stopped only long enough to grab his mace from the desk before darting out the door, the two Duncans hot on his heels. The Booming Tower was one of the tallest in Westeros, and the prince found himself breathing heavily by the time he reached the bottom, shoved the door open and strode into the courtyard. Steffon Baratheon had already arrived, along with Aerys’ granduncle, and their house guards were trying to keep northerner and riverman apart. Many of them fell back, leaving bodies scattered across the courtyard—except for the two lords, who had already crossed their swords.

Just as Theomore drew back his arm, Edmund Blackwood pinned his arms behind his back, pulling his liege lord away from the fray. Edwyle Stark tried to stab his immobilised opponent through the chest, only for Aerys to smack the great sword away with his mace.

„_Stop this madness in the name of your King!“_

Somehow, Aerys’ roar reached Lord Tully’s ears. The riverlord stopped struggling against Blackwood. Edwyle Stark had already backed away from the prince, Ice pointing at the ground.

„What on the green earth happened, exactly?“ the prince said softly.

„What happened,“ young Clement Piper spat, „is that the Stark whore—„

Stepping forward, Aerys struck the knight full across the face with the grip of his mace. Piper collapsed in a heap on the ground, his hands wrapped around his broken nose. Lord Stark, who had reached for his greatsword again, grinned slightly.

„The next man who uses fighting words will be flogged,“ Aerys growled. „Can _anyone _tell me the truth of this?“

„If it please your Grace, I might be of service.“ Leydon Hightower shouldered his way through the throng.

Aerys turned to him. „You were here, ser?“

„Playing at dice with Lord Glover, but I heard enough,“ the heir to Oldtown replied. „Hoster Tully is dead. A Stark guard ran in shouting that he’d tried to force himself on Lady Lyarra., after killing her guard, young Norrey. Her sister stabbed him in the skull. Lord Stark came down to the courtyard because he’d heard Lord Theomore was here, and cut down four of his guards. The northmen in the castle followed him, and the Vances and other Tully men came to Lord Theomore’s aid.“

„A filthy lie!“ roared Theomore, his face bright red. „My son would never-„

„_Be. Silent.“ _The Tully lord recoiled as Prince Duncan stepped forward. „You do not help yourself at all, Lord Tully, with rage.“

„Thank you, uncle,“ Aerys said quietly. „Lord Stark, where are your cousins? I would hear this from them.“

„My chamber, atop the Stoneshark Tower,“ Stark answered, his eyes still fixed on Theomore Tully. „But I’ll not have them out in the open in front of these—„

„_Mind your words_, my lord.“ Aerys stepped between Tully and Stark, forcing Edwyle to look him in the eye until the Lord of Winterfell nodded slightly.„If that is the case, I ask your leave to go to them. Lord Stark, Granduncle Edmund, Ser Gerold, come with me. Steff, Uncle Duncan, if any man from either side starts anything, my orders from before stand.“

„You would speak to them in front of Stark?“ snarled Tully. „Then let me be there!“

„You’ve proven yourself intemperate already, my lord,“ Aerys replied. „My granduncle Edmund will be there for the riverlands. I trust that will be enough?“

„It will not!“ shouted Norbert Vance.

„And why?“

„They worship trees same as the Starks, everyone knows that! He isn’t even a knight!“

„Then you don’t trust me either?“ Aerys asked softly, with a hint of danger low in his voice. „Did you not see me in the godswood after the Cape, ser?“

The young knight visibly gulped and shook his head, retreating into the crowd of riverlanders.

„Very well. Steff, Uncle, you know what to do.“ The Targaryen prince turned and strode off towards the tower, with Ser Duncan and Edmund close behind him. After a moment’s hesitation, Edwyle Stark followed the small party. A silence descended over the courtyard.

+++

Lyarra was still staring into space. _She’s in shock, _Branda thought . She was surprised to not be shaken herself; she had seen her father kill men before—_and Mother too—_but never imagined that she’d take a life with her own hands, let alone three.

She was startled by a gentle knock on the door. Rickard opened it.„My lady, your cousin’s here. With—„

„Bring him in,“ Branda said absentmindedly. She was jolted back to reality when Edwyle entered the chamber along with Aerys Targaryen, followed by white-haired Edmund Blackwood. The prince was clad in his usual black leather, and had clearly shaved not long ago.

„I…Your Grace, this is unexpected…“

„For me as well,“ he answered. Refusing the offer of a seat, Aerys knelt in front of Lyarra. Branda gasped in shock. _A Targaryen taking a knee?_

„My lady, I would ask what happened to you,“ he murmured softly.

„I…“ Lyarra forced herself to meet the prince’s kind eyes. „I was in the supply tent…“

Branda took her sister’s hand as she began to haltingly recount what had happened to Aerys. Throughout her testimony, the boy’s eyes never left her face. At the end, Lyarra broke down again, and Branda wrapped her arms around her.

„So he died by your hand,“ the prince said quietly.

„Yes.“ Letting Edwyle take her place, Branda stood tall at the same time as Aerys, meeting his purple gaze directly. „Would you not do the same for your sister, your grace?“ She was shocked by her own boldness.

„You are not wrong,“ he answered. „Lady Branda, no lord would sentence you for killing a man who was trying to rape your sister, and I truthfully cannot either. But this business with the Tullys will be ugly.“

„I fear the hour my son hears of this,“ Edwyle muttered. „Rickard loves her, Your Grace, and he’s quick with a blade.“

„Must my grandfather forbid him to set foot in the riverlands?“ Aerys asked, seriously. „What Hoster Tully tried to do was foul, but we cannot have it turn into a Dance of trout and direwolf.“

„Rickard doesn’t have a quick temper,“ Branda reassured him. „I’ll send him a letter, Your Grace.“

„Well, he certainly owes you much now,“ Aerys murmured. „Lord Stark, my ladies, I will take my leave for the moment. Granduncle, speak with the guard who came running when this happened, if you please.“ Edmund nodded curtly and slipped out through the door. As Aerys blowed and left, Branda could see the Blackwood talking with Artos.

_Well, he’ll see the scar on his face at least._

_Gods help us all…what will happen now?_

+++

Seagard had settled back down when Aerys returned to his own room. Riverlord and Northman alike had dispersed, and small patrols of Baratheon and Lannister soldiers could be seen throughout the corridors, and in the tents outside the castle walls. The Mallisters simply lacked the forces to keep the two sides apart.

„Three men for the cells tonight, your grace.“ Ser Leyton Hightower was seated in front of the fire with Steff, a beaker of mulled wine in his hand. Aerys was almost surprised to see the knight there, but decided to say nothing. „A Hornwood and two Vances, young Norbert being one of them.“

„There won’t be peace until this lot’s been separated,“Aerys muttered, collapsing into his chair.„The northerners will have to leave by tomorrow, I would guess. What a bloody _mess._What in the Seven Hells was young Tully thinking?“

„Wounded pride, and a sense of entitlement,“ Leyton answered bluntly. „Doesn’t excuse it, but you won’t get anywhere trying to reason through what Tully did.“

„Young Piper wants an apology,“ Steff added.

„Well, he isn’t getting one.“ Aerys extended his beaker, which the young Baratheon filled to the brim. „Lord Edwyle could have Piper’s tongue torn out with hot pincers for calling a lady of his house a whore in public. A smack with a stick is nothing to whinge about.“

„You embarrassed him, Ae.“

„And if I hadn’t, the Pipers would be dragged in front of the Iron Throne for slander before the year was out. I barely talked Lord Stark out of it.“ Aerys shuddered a little at the memory of the words the two had exchanged while climbing the Booming Tower. Rickard Stark might have a steady temper, but his father most assuredly did not. Once out of the Tullys’ earshot, he had uttered a combination of threats and curse words so powerful that Aerys had felt a shiver run down his spine. Not until they reached the door of the Starks’ chamber had he been able to persuade Edwyle not to challenge Clement Piper and Theomore Tully to a trial of seven. Had the incident happened in the North, Lord Stark had made clear, he would’ve dipped Hoster Tully’s body in tar and hung it from the gates of Winterfell.

„Your uncle sent a raven to the Red Keep when he returned here,“ Leyton added.

„I think we’ll have to wrap up the talks in the next few days,“ Steff interjected quietly. „Ae, the freed folk are _enraged_. I tried to escort them out the back once I returned from the courtyard, but they’d heard enough. Too many of them saw their sisters and mothers given to ironborn men for their use, far too many. The Sawyer wanted me to leave Hoster Tully’s body for the crows, Lady Bluewood too. They would’ve torn old Tully’s door down and beaten him to death if I’d stood aside.“

„I must stay to sign the accord with the freed folk,“ Aerys answered, „but I think we could send the riverlords home. The Starks, though…they can’t return along the Green Fork anymore. I’m going to ask the Redwynes and Hightowers to ferry them home to Flint’s Finger—I don’t mind paying for this ourselves, but the riverlands will be more than a little dangerous for anyone sworn to Winterfell.“

„Your Grace, you probably won’t be able to go back the way you came either,“ Leyton interjected. „The Tullys, the Vances, the Darrys, the Brackens since your grandmother was a Blackwood, the Pipers…you have too many enemies there now.“

Aerys cursed softly. „You’re right. Perhaps it’s time for the North to see a royal progress. I could take ship from White Harbour.“

„You’ll provoke the riverlords if you do,“ Steff warned. „The West would be a better option. Tytos Lannister would certainly welcome you into his halls.“

„I’ll have words with Lord Jason,“ Aerys said quietly, rising from his seat.

_And with Tywin. He seems to have potential._


	8. Chapter 8

Feastfires earned its name that cold autumn night.

Not three days before, Aerys had sailed from Seagard with the majority of the western and royal fleets, as well as a handful of Oldtown vessels beginning the long trek home. Standing into the shore shortly before sundown, they had been invited to take an evening on shore before crossing the Lion’s Sound to Lannisport the following morning.

Even as a harsh Sunset Sea wind whipped around the edges of the castle, the ale flowed and the immense hearth, an open pit in the middle of the Steer’s Hall, roared. Jason Lannister, looking much happier with his wife on his arm, had told Aerys earlier that his goodfather rarely lit the main hearth, a relic from the days when the First Men had raised Feastfires as a ringfort, but that the castle hadn’t seen any sort of royal visit since before the Dance. Cedric Prester himself was a surprisingly thin and quiet man, but easily one of the better hosts Aerys had come across since leaving the Red Keep. _Better than Lord fucking Darry._

As a royal prince, Aerys had pride of place at the lord’s right hand. He had offered it to Duncan, only for his uncle to laughingly turn it down, pointing to the Cape of Eagles. The Prince of Dragonflies sat alongside Jason Lannister, further down the main dais.

„Have you given thought to marrying, your Grace?“

Surprised, Aerys turned to see Lady Leweyna Prester leaning towards him, doing her best not to drag her sleeve in her husband’s soup. He relaxed, having feared being cornered by a flirtatious Westerlands maiden or her ambitious mother. The Presters’ only daughter was married to Ser Jason. _Unless she has nieces, or granddaughters. Oh well._

„I’ll have to be getting around to it someday soon, my lady,“ the prince replied; noticing the blooming conversation, Lord Prester wisely chose to take the opportunity to speak with Leyton Hightower. His wife shifted herself awkwardly into the main seat.

„We heard there was a little bit of a kerfuffle about that in King’s Landing,“ she added, reaching for her beaker. „You’ll certainly have the chance to go looking when you reach the Rock tomorrow.“

Aerys concealed his surprise; no one had been bold enough to mention the incident with the attempted betrothal to him, not even his uncle.

„Not trying to pitch any of your family my way, Lady Prester?“ he teased. She reminded him more than a little of his own grandmother.

She laughed, taking a deep draught of Dornish red. „I’ve one granddaughter your age, your young Grace, and she’s taken, believe me.“ She pointed across the hall, to where a small throng of girls had gathered around several Hightower knights. „The one in the red dress.“

Aerys sucked his breath in. The girl—_no, this is a woman, though she might be barely past my own age—_had striking blue eyes, rich flowing hair, a stunning heart-shaped face, and a rich, full figure. As he watched, she laughed at one of the young knights’ japes.

„Joanna, Jason’s girl.“ Lady Prester grinned; she had clearly seen his reaction. „She’s Tywin’s. She knows it, so does he, though he thinks she doesn’t, so does anyone with eyes in their head. You couldn’t turn that one’s head with or without the Iron Throne, your young Grace.“

„He’s very fortunate.“ Aerys cursed internally as he turned back to his hostess. „As a matter of fact…I was going to ask about Tywin’s sister. Lady Genna, isn’t it?“

Lady Prester’s eyes widened briefly before she laughed. „Oh, that one is a right handful, Prince Aerys. The right age for you, for certain, if you wait a few years, but…oh gods, is she something else. Strong willed, you know. I met that little weasel of a Frey she was meant to marry. Short luck he’dve had ruling over her.“

Aerys learned closer. „As little luck as Lord Prester, maybe?“

She shrieked with laughter. _Bit too much to drink, maybe. _„Oh, you are a tart-tongued one. This isn’t Cedric’s domain, my dear. He’s a good listener, and an even-handed lord, and a dead good shot with bow or crossbow if he’s one to hand…but he’s not much for courtly games. Would you care to take some air?“

_That was sudden, but…I can hardly refuse. _Nodding to Ser Duncan, he rose, offering her his arm.The two strolled through the hall, followed by the kingsguard knight and a grim-eyed man in Prester colours, with a hammer strapped to his back. Feastfires had grown smoky, and the men who had accompanied Aerys more than a little drunk.

Finally, reaching the opposite edge, the strange pair ascended a long wooden staircase and eventually emerged onto the balcony facing inland. The night wind whistled quietly through the wooded hills. Across it, he knew, lay more water, and eventually Lannisport. Despite the weather, it was warm where they stood; the chimney from the pit was nearby, throwing off waves of heat.

„Now we can speak freely.“ Lady Prester had grabbed a heavy shawl, and adjusted it around her shoulders. „Joanna has Ty’s ear, and I have hers….so I’ve already heard a fair bit about you, Prince Aerys.“ The slight air of inebriation had vanished from her voice and features. She noticed the surprise on his face, and smiled. „I found out when I was young, your young Grace, that when men think you’re a little bit drunk, they don’t watch their words around you. Don’t take you seriously. Believe me, that’s often exactly what you want.“

„And what would you like to speak about?“ the prince replied.

„What you’ll see at the Rock come tomorrow,“ she murmured. „How much do you know about the west, Prince—„

„Just Aerys, please,“ he groaned. „This will drive me mad.“

He noticed what seemed like admiration flash across her face briefly. „As you will, Aerys.“

„To answer your question, I know my grandfather’s Hand had to ride out here to put down several uprisings in the last few years. And that Ser Tywin isn’t here because there was trouble by the Banefort.“

„Right enough. Make no mistake, Lord Tytos is weak.“ A note of anger had crept into Lady Prester’s voice. „Make no mistake, my goodson had several bastard children before he made his way out here, but he could’ve been a perfectly good Warden of the West. His brother, on the other hand, is feared by no one and respected by very few. And there are Houses determined to take advantage of that.“

„The Reynes,“ Aerys said quietly. „The ones who killed House Marbrand’s men.“

„Aye, and the Tarbecks as well, the family whom Lord Reyne’s sister married into.“ Lady Prester was staring into the darkness looming over them. „The red lions want only one thing, Aerys—the Wardenship. Roger Reyne thinks himself worthy to command the whole of the Westerlands.“

„Are they bloody _mad?_“ Aerys stared at her. „My grandfather could never do that!“

„It doesn’t seem like it now, certainly, but…well, not all the Westerlands houses _wanted _you to win, Aerys. The young knights of House Reyne drink too deeply, especially when they think they’re among family and friends, and things slip out.“ Lady Prester had noticed a trailing thread in her shawl and tore it off with a _tsk_. „Before I was a Prester, I was Leweyna Lydden, of the Deep Den, where my nephew is still lord. And his ears are good—especially when he has talkative riders from Castamere among his guests. Roger Reyne wanted to ride with you, aye, but his goodbrother Walderan, the Lord of Tarbeck Hall, cautioned him against it. The Red Lion thought he could break the ironborn like a bundle of old sticks, and show himself to be a better lord than Tytos. Walderan thought that you’d lose, and that it would show King’s Landing that the Westerlands need a stronger hand. Now, instead, you’re victorious with absolutely no reason to give either House a hand.“

„And Lord Tytos is no stronger than before,“ Aerys murmured, his fingers tracing the warm outline of a rock in the chimney.

„_Exactly. _I’m not certain what’ll come next, but make no mistake, the Reynes and Tarbecks have little love for your family at present, or should I say _your side _of the family. I doubt the Tullys do, now, either.“ Lady Prester straightened herself up. „We ought to be getting back inside, or I suppose people will talk.”

As they descended the staircase, Aerys turned his hostess’ words over and over in his head. _My side of the family…red lions, and a blue star, for House Tarbeck, I think…we’ll see how strong Tywin is, though….what did she mean, _my _side of the family…if Lord Edwyle can’t keep his temper…._

But by the time he returned to his chair, only one thought, or rather image, consumed his head: that of a black three-headed dragon, with red behind it.

Two hours later, with the feast wound down, Aerys was left in the utter quiet of the guests’ chambers in the Oxdriver’s Keep, the largest section of Feastfires, with little to do but think about the past few days as he stretched out on his surprisingly comfortable bed.

In the end, it had been Brandon Norrey’s death that had sealed the Tullys’ fate. Theomore Tully had raged, blustered and threatened, but none of that could erase the dead body. Aerys had realised, with more than a little disgust, that the old trout could have easily claimed that Lyarra had thrown herself at his son, only for him to refuse and be killed in consequence. Alive, Norrey’s word would have counted for far less than that of the two knights who had accompanied Hoster Tully on his fateful visit. But his death on the Stark sisters’ doorstep left little doubt as to what had happened. Even so, not everyone had accepted that version of events. To the prince’s dismay, Jon Arryn had suggested that Branda could have dragged Norrey’s body outside after he had been killed by one of the knights inside the chamber, while ambushing Hoster. To his relief, Leyton Hightower had actually laughed out loud at the suggestion. Unluckily for the river lords, it had actually been a young Beesbury squire in the Hightowers’ service, abed with a massive leg wound from the Cape, who had heard the screams and run to alert Lord Edwyle. More unluckily still, he had heard Brandon Norrey’s dying grunt first, belying the Vale knight’s strange tale. The North’s star had already risen high with the Reachmen after the Starks’ foolhardy courage at the Cape, and the men from Oldtown and the Arbor had made their disdain for the Tullys clear in their last few days at Seagard.

The attack had put a damper on the postwar celebrations, and shortened the talks with the freed folk. Steffon had not been wrong; the former thralls clearly detested men like Hoster Tully after years of being the ironborn’s possessions themselves, and more than a few of them had gotten into fistfights with Tully, Vance and Bracken men on the streets of Seagard Town the night it had all happened. Ser Patrek had been in a bad spot; unable to order his liege lord to quit his House’s lands, the knight had had to quietly appeal to Aerys and Prince Duncan, who had jointly commanded the riverlanders to return home. Seeing Leyton Hightower, Jason Lannister, Garse Redwyne and Steffon Baratheon standing close behind the two Targaryens, each with his weapon close to hand, Theomore Tully had choked back his anger and followed orders. The northerners had left a day later, taking ship for Flint’s Finger with the Reach and Westerlands fleets.

_But it’s not over. Oh no. _Aerys knew full well that the other half of the Stark family, those who had remained at Winterfell, would be no less wroth than Edwyle and Branda after Hoster Tully’s attempt to rape Lyarra. He knew that the Stark sisters’ father, Edwyle’s ageing uncle Rodrik, had served with more than one sellsword company in Essos; that Rickard Stark would most likely tell this story to his own children, ensuring at least three generations of Wardens of the North hostile to the riverlands—and that while few of the knights and lords he had spoken to had even bothered to mention Brandon Norrey by name, there would be a price to pay for the death of a Northern mountain clan’s chieftain-in-waiting. The Wulls and Liddles who had been with Lord Stark had been among the first to draw their blades in the Seagard courtyard, and one of them had disembowelled Ser Rolf Vance, Norbert’s uncle, before being stabbed in the back by another Vance man. _A Wull, he was, from the largest of the mountain clans. Well _done, _Lord Tully._

++++

FIVE DAYS LATER

A light rain was coming down as the party reached the outskirts of the winter town.

They were many fewer now; the White Harbour men, the Flints of the Finger, even the Glovers had all gone their separate ways by this point. Still, Branda was surrounded by northern lords—Aleric Karstark, a cut above his eye, the gift of a Lolliston pikeman at Seagard, nearly healed, and his son Rickard—_the Squidslayer, _some called him; Ser Eddard Locke, her cousin’s goodbrother; and last, the mountain chieftains who had marched with them. They were deadly, frightfully silent. Lord Edwyle had nearly had to knock Padraic Burley down to prevent him from sneaking into Theomore Tully’s chambers, and the clansmen had said little since being forced to leave the riverlands behind.

As for her cousin—he rode some distance ahead, and said less than even the mountain men, almost as little as Lyarra herself.

_„You could have gotten us all _killed, _you damned fool!“_

_Gasps had echoed around the tent when Rickard Karstark jabbed his left hand into Edwyle Stark’s chest. Branda had almost stepped forward, only for Artos Liddle to hold her back._

_„He needs to hear this,“ the captain of the Winterfell guards had growled into her ear. „Won’t listen to me.“_

_„You ungrateful brat!“ Edwyle roared. „You stayed up in that damn tower while the real men did the fighting!“_

_„I protected your cousins, my lord, something you forgot to do!“ the younger man fired back, shrugging off his father’s arm. „You lost control of yourself, Lord Stark. You could’ve _spoken _with Theomore Tully, not immediately cut his guards down!“_

_„He. Called. Her. A. _Whore,“ _Edwyle had hissed. _„My cousin.“

_„And a great deal of good it would’ve done her if we’d been slaughtered by the riverlords. Or your head struck off by the White Dragon for breaking guest right!“ Rickard had been visibly shaking with anger. „How many of us will want to march with you again, if we think your mouth will spring a trap on us?“_

_„An oathbreaker and a coward both,“ sneered wiry Padraic Burley, stepping forward._

_„This from a man who planned to kill an old man in his sleep. Ser Mallister could have you hanged for trying to kill a guest of his, you know.“ Lord Aleric himself had met the mountain chieftain’s gaze until the older man dropped his eyes. He’d then turned back to Edwyle Stark. „I am loyal, my lord, but I will not throw my men’s lives away, now or ever. If you seek vengeance against the Tullys, I will follow you—myself, I swore an oath, and so has my son. But I will not drag my farmers and fishers with me.“_

_With that, the two Karstarks turned and stalked out of the tent._

Since then, Edwyle had been nearly silent. Nevertheless, Branda saw a smile pass over his face as they rode through the Winterfell gate.

As she expected, the remaining four Starks waited for them in the courtyard.

Lady Marna Locke Stark had her curly brown hair tied back, as usual, and a severe expression on her narrow face. She had passed only her colouring down to Rickard, who took after his grandfather Willem; dark eyes, set widely apart, a broad flat nose in the middle of a round face, and long brown hair. Beside them were Branda’s parents. Rodrik Stark was easily the oldest, a stocky man with a snow-white beard and scarred hands. Arya Flint, his wife, was a well-rounded woman with lively blue eyes, a slightly crooked jaw and hair just now beginning to go grey. All four wore Northern furs.

They said little in the courtyard, with Rodrik leaving briefly to see that the visiting mountain lords settled into their chambers. When they gathered half an hour later in Edwyle’s solar, it was different.

++++

„Enough.“

Rickard’s voice had deepened even since Branda had been away. He rose from his chair to separate his father and granduncle, who had inched dangerously close to one another.

„He’s the righ’ o’ it,“ Arya interjected. „Rodrik, ye canna tell him he’s being reckless and short when ye're screamin’ yersel’. “

„And you know better, too, Ed,“ Lady Marna snapped. „I swear, you two’re worse than my brothers.“

„Right.“ Clearly embarrassed, Rodrik settled himself back down.

„I’m sorry,“ Edwyle said quietly. „The Karstarks were right. I can’t be after asking men to follow me into battle in this state.“

Rickard frowned. „What have the Karstarks said, then?“

Holding back a laugh despite the seriousness of the situation, Branda quickly recounted what had happened at the tent the night they’d left Flint’s Finger. As she spoke, she realised that Lyarra and Rickard were avoiding eye contact with one another. _Hmmmm._

„They can’t speak that way to their liege lord,“ Marna murmured.

„If I punish them, I’ll look afraid of being weak,“ Edwyle said resignedly. „Aleric isn’t disloyal by nature, Mar, never has been.. And they were right. I never should’ve left the girls alone after what happened.“

„So what do we do, then?“ Rodrik’s frustration shone through his voice. „Not just about Karstark, about _all of this. _You were reckless, Ed, because you were in their camp.But now we have the upper hand again. We’re not dependent on the King for our security. We need to plan.“

„The mountain clans willna wait fore’er,“ Arya added. „Me brothers want Riverrun burned to the fookin' _ground, _Ed. Torghen’s mighty protective o’ his family. And the Norreys—the Norreys have approached the Knotts and Flints both. They want the old feuds to be laid aside for all time. If that doesna mean they’ll be after doin’ something drastic shortly, I dunno what would.“

Edwyle whistled softly, and Branda raised her eyebrows. The antagonisms between the different mountain clans often ran fierce and hot; she’d heard a number of stories about them from her mother. This was a sign indeed.

„For now,“ Rickard said, stepping forward, „we need to wait.“ He raised his hands against the sceptical looks of his parents and granduncle. „Hear me out. The riverlords are not in favour with the Crown right now. Between this and the Darry affair, I doubt that any beyond the Mallisters and Blackwoods would be comfortable showing their faces in the Red Keep.“

„That doesn’t matter if they—„

„Wait, Father, please. The king’s had no shortage of revolts since he took the throne, but that doesn’t mean he can let the Darrys humiliate him. What happens when the Hand summons Lord Darry to King’s Landing?“

„He may go. Or not.“ Rodrik Stark was clearly listening, intently.

„Precisely. Personally, I wouldn’t go. Not when I know that my own liege has a quarrel with the Crown, and will support me. If the Darrys refuse, then King Aegon _must _act. The Tullys may, or may not. Certainly, they can’t ride against their own bannermen without losing support from the major riverlands houses that keep them propped up. Either way, there will be trouble in the riverlands. A small party of northerners will then not be unwelcome, to keep the king’s peace, of course. For certain, that will provoke the Tullys, the Vances and Pipers as well, I don’t doubt. And once they draw steel against us, we have cause to sack Riverrun. The best course of action right now, is to wait. Maybe half a year. Maybe longer. But there will be revolts down there again, mark my words. Then, we strike.“

++++

Rickard caught up to Branda after the Starks had gone their separate ways, just outside the main hall.

„How is she?“

„Dead quiet,“ the older Stark sister replied, her eyes roaming over Rickard’s face. „You didn’t speak to her.“

„We were at odds when you left, and…I don’t know if she’ll trust men my age again for a long time, Bran.“ Rickard scrubbed his face. „I felt so godsdamned _helpless. _I couldn’t do a thing. Couldn’t cut Clement Piper down when he insulted her. Couldn’t protect her from that fucking trout. I still can’t do anything, not yet.“

„You could talk to her,“ Branda murmured. „Lyarra was afraid you wouldn’t want her anymore, that there’d be rumours and she wouldn’t be good enough anymore.“

„Even if he had defiled her…I wouldn’t have changed my mind.“

„Then tell her that. Sooner rather than later.“

+++

She saw them once more, late that night, after the return feast. Lyarra was staring at the ground in the courtyard as Rickard spoke softly to her, seemingly still afraid to touch the girl he loved. Peering around a post, Branda could see that tears had begun to track down his face, lodging in his short brown beard. Suddenly, some word or phrase got through to Lyarra, who slowly took his hands and then quickly buried herself in his chest, sobbing audibly. She was nearly swallowed up by the Stark boy’s furs as he held her close.

_Seeing this, I could kill that trout all over again._


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one; next chapter will be set in Casterly Rock, and I wanted to keep us up to fate with Ulla (who will be a more important character as the story goes on).

The cold Sunset Sea lashed the prow of the _Catshark _as Ulla blinked the salt water from her eyes. Ahead of her, a handful of iron born sailors were struggling to adjust the sails. They were falling to the back of the ragged little convoy.

_This ship’s a piece of shit if ever I’ve seen one. _It had been in the yards at Iron Holt the night the thralls rose, to have its crooked rudder replaced and a decade’s worth of barnacles scraped off the hull. But the _Moonraker, _the enormous longship that her brother, father and grandfather had all sailed at various times, had almost certainly burned to the waterline at the Cape, along with the rest of the Iron Fleet.

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. _Should ask the thralls. They’d know. They seemed to know everything that happened at the Cape, within hours of it happening._

_Then again...so did Joron._

+++

The night of the Cape, Ulla had been roused from bed at the hour of the eel by screams from outside her door. Cursing quietly, the Lady of Iron Holt had hauled herself into her rolling chair just as the door burst open, a dead Wynch guard slumping backwards with an axe wound through his head. An enormous man had stepped through the door, clad in the rags of a foundry thrall, with a hammer in his hand. Before Ulla had the chance to snatch up the long throwing knife she always kept by her bed, Joron Farwynd, whom her father had fostered there for three years, emerged through the doorway, and killed the thrall with a single swing of his flail.

„We need to go.“ Without hesitating, he threw Ulla over his shoulder and strode out of the chamber. She gasped to see the hall; three of her guards were dead, along with two of the thralls.

„Joron…what….“

„Thrall uprising.“ Another man, this one holding an axe in each hand, emerged from a side corridor. Joron dispatched him with a blow to his knee, then his skull.

„Has somebody alerted Lord Greyjoy? Or—„

„My lady, the Greyjoys are dead. Lord Eldred and Quellon both. Your brother too. Nearly every man who sailed eastwards is dead.“

Ulla went numb with shock as Joron jogged down the stairs and into the Iron Holt courtyard. _Uthor…._“How? And when…“

„Barely an hour past. They were ambushed.“

Joron loaded her into a small donkey cart pulled up in the courtyard, along with six grim-looking Wynch guards, and hopped up beside the driver.

„Then we need to send word to Pyke.“

„The uprising’s the entire damn island,“ one of the guards growled, his hand shifting uneasily on his spear. „Lordsport, Pyke Castle, all of it.“

„Great Wyk as well, and Harlaw.“ Joron was on high alert as the cart rattled out of the gates. Ulla almost asked why they swerved off to the right, clearly avoiding Ironholt Town, but caught her breath once she heard the screams coming from the little village. The iron foundry was glowing red, as always, and she could see men fighting, falling, dying in the light it threw off.

„Where are we—„

„Saltcliffe. There’s nowhere safe on Pyke at the moment.“

„No!“ she snapped angrily. „I can’t leave my people—„

„You’re the last Wynch,“ Joron said firmly. The boy was at least four years younger than her, from a far less powerful ironborn house, but there wasn’t so much as a hint of hesitation in his voice. „Your cousins didn’t make it through the Cape either, Ulla. I said I’d serve House Wynch until I returned home, and if this is how I must do that, so be it.“

She had fallen silent after that, as they’d reached the shore, where the listing _Catshark _waited for them. In the end, only forty-eight reavers had made it aboard, the remnants of her house guard plus a handful from Ironholt Town. Two other longships waited for them outside the cove.

+++

Saltcliffe had been hell. The Goodbrothers, the Botleys, Joron’s Farwynd cousins from Sealskin Point on Great Wyk…the number of iron born houses driven onto the high seas by their thralls’ wrath was nearly beyond the counting. House Saltcliffe itself was no more, its men killed by the White Dragon, Prince Aerys, at the Cape, and its women, old men and children murdered by their own servants before the Sunderlys could reach them. The Botleys, two branches of the Harlaws, the Myres and Kennings of Harlaw Island, the Orkwoods, the Tawneys, the Sparrs and the Stonetrees had joined them, their last members wiped out. Orkmont, Great Wyk, Pyke and Harlaw had all been dependent on thralls before the uprising; nearly half of the inhabitants of Orkmont were in bondage in the iron mines, foundries or fields, and Pyke had been little better.

But the last house wiped out by its own thralls had been the most troubling. The Greyjoys, the family that had held the Iron Islands since the Conquest, were no more. Balon Greyjoy, a boy of two, had been flung from the highest tower of Pyke Castle, along with his pregnant mother. She had been a Sunderly, and Ulla’s hosts were swearing bloody vengeance when the _Catshark _limped into the docks at Sunderly’s Town.

It had become rapidly apparent that they would not have it. Harlaw was cut in two, its surviving reavers desperately holding a line against the thralls in the middle of the island. The Goodbrothers and Stonehouses were huddled together on Old Wyk, planning a counterattack on Great Wyk. The Blacktydes were planning to raid Orkmont.

It all came to grief three days later, when the fleets from the green lands were sighted. The Lannisters had sent sixty ships to make good on their newfound claim to Saltcliffe. Ulla had immediately ordered her men to weigh anchor. The Sunderly had cursed her as a false friend, his face reddening, only to relent when the Farwynds and Botleys followed her. The Lannister sailors had given brief chase, only to give up once the reavers veered off into the Sunset sea. They’d finally set off southwards once the lions were out of sight, eventually joined by ten ships escaping the Redwynes, who had fallen on Blacktyde like dragons, and two from the Lonely Light. _Bringing us to a grand total of twenty-four longships._

As Ulla turned to look at the sun slipping out from behind a quilt of ragged clouds, she knew she would be at sea for a long time. She was the oldest surviving member of the noble families that had taken sail, and consequently held the unofficial role of leader. She had determined that they would have to sail for Essos. Nowhere in Westeros would ironborn be welcome, and the Narrow Sea was too dangerous to risk, given its proximity to the royal fleet’s mooring grounds in Blackwater Bay.

_We’ll see how many ships we have left by then. _A bitter laugh escaped her lips. _I suppose we could form some kind of sellsail company. Fight_ _under a Free City’s banner…and never see our homes again. Although we’ll be little use with these bloody longships. _Essosi dromonds would run over the little convoy like a cart crushed a toad, in an open fight.

_No. Drowned God be my witness, I _will _take Iron Holt back for my family._

_Somehow._


	10. Chapter 10

AERYS

It was what every boy dreamed of from the day he became a squire, and yet Aerys felt strangely empty.

The gates of King’s Landing opened as his small party approached, and he could hear the roar from within. A vast crowd of Kingslanders mobbed the street leading to the Red Keep, a few waving ragged banners with the Targaryen colours, many more clapping.

And all of them calling his name.

_“Aerys! Aerys!”_

_“The White Dragon!”_

_“Hammer of the Squids!”_

He felt curiously alone: Steffon had turned southward, summoned home by Aerys’ aunt, and the Blackwoods had returned to Raventree. The two Duncans, Tall and Small, were at his right, and slightly back.

The newest addition to his party was nearly silent. Ser Tywin Lannister had spoken only a few words since they had left Casterly Rock a sennight past. He was accompanied by a handful of Lannister and Marbrand house guards.

Rhaella was equally quiet. She had seemingly withdrawn into herself since the death of Brandon Norrey, saying little at any of their stops in the West. _I must ask Mother to speak with her._

The gates to the Keep closed behind the leaders, leaving the few Kingslander men who had marched with them to return to their families. It was a small party that dismounted, and entered the Throne Room.

The applause there seemed louder than that in the city centre. Every noble in the crown lands seemed to have arrived to lend their voice—_many more than actually rode with us, I see. _Aerys’ parents stood at the foot of the Throne, along with Lord Appledon. His grandfather had risen from his uncomfortable perch atop the massive column of blackened steel.

“Prince Aerys, welcome home.”

“Your Grace.” The others stopped, and Aerys walked on alone, until he was at the foot of the Iron Throne. “I bring to you peace on the shores of the Sunset Sea, and the direct allegiance of the Freedman’s Islands.”

“I accept both, and thank you for your service to the Crown and the realm.” Aegon descended slowly from the throne. “We shall feast your return this evening, and mourn the lives lost at the Cape of Eagles and in the uprising on the islands.”

The smile that turned up the corners of his mouth never reached his violet eyes.

“The wolves are circling.”

His grandfather had been silent since they left the Throne Room. Now, in the King’s chambers, the older man had dropped the mask.

“Aye,” Aerys murmured. “Grandfather, I couldn’t have punished Lady Stark, Lord Edwyle would have lost his—“

“Don’t tell me what you could and could not have done,” Aegon V answered cuttingly.

“Your Grace?” Aerys was confused.

“Edwyle Stark’s hot head nearly set off a war. Appeasing him oughtn’t be the reason for your decisions.”

“It wouldn’t have been right, either.”

“You believe the Stark girl?”

“The two of them, yes.” Aerys braced himself. “Your Grace, they couldn’t have possibly killed three men unless the situation—“

“She, not they. Branda Stark is, by any account, the only one to have taken any lives.” Aegon’s tone was still irritated. “Including that of Lord Tully’s heir.”

“He was a dead man in any case.” Aerys’ voice had gone flat. “If not Lord Edwyle, one of his household. If not them, the Stark sisters’ father, who served with a sellsword company. If not him, one of the freed folk.”

“He didn’t have to die in this manner. Our hand has been forced thanks to your decision.”

“Ae.” His grandmother’s tone was warning.

“Not yet, Betha.” The King’s tone was increasingly agitated. “The Tullys have been shown up in front of the realm, Aerys. You showed that the throne favoured the Starks’ side, beyond a doubt. Did it ever occur to you to have this brought to my judgment? To tell Theomore Tully and Edwyle Stark that this was a matter for the King and the King alone?”

“There was no time,” Uncle Duncan interjected. “Father, there would’ve been a war at Seagard if—“

“Then the aggressor would’ve been defying my name. Problem solved.”

“It was in your name that I ordered them to stop fighting,” Aerys snapped. “If it had been the other way around, the Starks would be shown up. There wasn’t a good way out of it!”

His father laid a hand on his arm. Surprisingly, Aerys felt no urge to shake it off.

“Perhaps.” Aegon had clearly worked to calm himself as well. “But the Starks could afford that, Aerys. They could blame you, or me, for siding with the Tullys, and their bannermen, who are loyal, would believe them. How are the Tullys different.”

Aerys felt a sinking pit of dread in his stomach. “Their banner men—aren’t always as loyal, you mean.”

“Precisely.” Aegon perched on the edge of his writing desk. “The Tullys are weaker than seven of their houses: Blackwood, Bracken, Mallister, both sets of Vances, Mooton and Darry. The Whents are nearly as strong as they are, too. All of them will now have seen that their liege lords have lost the royal favour that made them the Lords of the Trident—royal favour that I cannot now give back without weakening _you. _They’ll wait and watch, make no mistake, and someday not that far off, there will be rebellion in the riverlands. The small folk will suffer. And there will be opportunities for people who love division and chaos in Westeros.”

He didn’t need to say who he meant.

“What would you have done?” Aerys said quietly.

“Exiled Branda Stark for a period of ten years.” His grandmother’s tone was firm.

Aerys was aghast. “She’s of Blackwood descent! Our own kin?”

“Better than to have a Tully knife slipped betwixt her shoulder blades,” Jaehaerys muttered. “She’s still in danger.”

“In any event, it is done.” Aegon’s tone left no room for dissent. “This matter of the freed folk, on the other hand…that was well done, I think. We gained a great deal without having to punish the Greyjoys too harshly, the Faith is quite happy, as is House Hightower, and the taxes they pay go us directly.”

“We’ll need to appoint a warden,” Betha murmured. “Someone to hear their grievances, keep the peace…”

“I shall find someone,” her husband agreed. “Now, to this matter of the Darrys…”

Aerys excused himself from the family’s chambers after the meeting had ended, walking towards the godswood. Ser Gwayne Gaunt, one of the youngest members of the Kingsguard, followed close behind him.

_He was unreasonable._

Aerys had barely been able to contain his fury at his grandfather’s judgment. It was easy for him to say, he hadn’t been at Seagard, hadn’t been forced to confront a raging Edwyle Stark, hadn’t—

_He’s faced these things before, and you know it full well, _said the doubting little voice at the back of his head.

_Piss off._

The woods were dead quiet at that hour of the day. His granduncles hadn’t joined the royal party in its travels through the Westerlands, and there were almost no Blackwoods or northerners normally resident in King’s Landing otherwise. The gardens often attracted small swarms of courtiers, but the section with the remaining weirwoods was too dark for the fashionable lords and ladies of the Crownlands.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

Aerys didn’t jump when Ser Tywin Lannister stepped out from behind one of the trees. The young knight had cleaned himself off since they rode through the gates of the Red Keep, and was clad in a dull red tunic.

“I’m a creature of habit, ser.” The two boys fell into a slow walk, Ser Gwayne keeping behind them—_and watching for eavesdroppers no doubt._

“You weren’t impressed with my father.”

“No.”

+++

_Casterly Rock was overwhelming in every possible sense._

_Sailing in, Aerys had felt the air cool as the Rock’s great shadow blocked the sunlight from the sea. Ser Jason made some remark about the Lannisters being rich enough to buy an earlier winter, if they wanted, and his daughter rolled her eyes._

_The harbour beneath the Rock was the size of Blackwater Bay’s greatest ports, with ships painted in Lannister red and gold lining the edge. Stepping onto the dock, Aerys found himself shaking his head._

_“Your Grace, we bid you welcome, and thank you for ridding our seas of these ironborn scum.”_

How did the gods give the strongest castle in Westeros to its weakest lord?

_He had learned not to judge by appearances, or try not to, in his time at Raventree. Tyts Lannister didn’t make that an easy task. The Warden of the West had a weak chin under his flowing blond beard, the weakest handshake Aerys had ever encountered, and a hesitant, utterly joyless voice. Tywin had said that the best of his father had died with his mother, Lady Jeyne Marbrand, and the Targaryen prince could believe it. Accompanying Ser Jason and Joanna to the lion lord’s solar, he saw some redeeming qualities. Tytos clearly cared for his sons, and fretted aloud that his daughter would be distraught after herbetrothed’s death. Aerys knew better, but said little._

_The feast had been little better. Hundreds of men feasting at Lord Lannister’s expense, mocking him when not that far into their cups. Aerys had sensed Tywin’s anger, and Joanna’s embarrassment, as clear as day. Unbelievably, the Reynes were still welcome in the lion lord’s halls._

_And yet, it was Tywin that Tytos sent away the next day instead. He vacillated and equivocated, but Aerys knew that he feared his heir would provoke the Reynes, easily his most powerful vassals._

_Riding eastward, a gloomy Tywin at his side, Aerys knew the Westerlands to be barely under control._

Lady Prester was right.

+++

“I should have stayed.”

Tywin’s voice was soft as he regarded the deep pool at the middle of the woods. They had stopped walking.

“He ordered you to come back here.”

“Indeed. He orders many things, my father. People don’t always do them.”

“He’d look weak if you’d refused him like that.”

“You already saw how weak he looks.” Tywin’s fingers tensed into a fist.“I should be _there, _Aerys, not here. Father’ll let the Reynes steal the treasury out from under his nose.”

“Your uncle—“

“A good commander, but a poor courtier. There’s a reason he lives at Feastfires, you know. Less intrigue. Not so close to Lannisport. Stafford takes after him.”

“And Joanna doesn’t.”

“No.” Tywin fell silent.

“You wanted her to come with you.” It wasn’t a question.

“She didn’t want to come, and my uncle didn’t really want her to go, either. Nor her mother.” Aerys was struck by Tywin’s precise, almost poetic diction. He had acquired the riverlands habit of running words and sounds together, especially when he drank, but the Lannister heir sounded almost like a singer.

“What does your grandfather plan to do with the Darrys?”

“They’ll be summoned to court. Don’t know if they’ll come.” Aerys strongly suspected they wouldn’t; his mace hand itched at the thought.

“And this matter with the islands?”

“Grandfather will choose a Warden of the Freedman’s Islands shortly,” the Targaryen prince muttered as they began to walk back towards the Keep.

“You want it.”

“I do, but I’m much too young. He’ll give it to Uncle Dunk. A prince who isn’t in line for the throne, a reasonable man…”

“…and married to a smallfolk woman.” The distaste was evident in Tywin’s voice.

“There are no more nobles in the islands,” Aerys answered quietly. “They won’t laugh at her, or him.”

“That’s not the problem.” They were passing into the brighter part of the garden now. “He has bad judgment, Aerys. He gave up the Iron Throne for a woman.”

“Are you sure that isn’t the problem?”

“What do you mean?” Tywin sounded irritated.

“Are you afraid of what happens when smallfolk have rights, Tywin? Start getting ahead of themselves in your eyes?”

“Yes, and you should be too.” Tywin stopped and turned to him. “The ironborn were scum, Aerys. Don’t think I wouldn’t sooner have thralls for neighbours. But think about what happens when the smallfolk of Lannisport and the riverlands and King’s Landing see rebellion rewarded.”

“Rebellion against other rebels. Not against the crown.”

“It scarcely makes a difference if you’re unhappy with your lord.” Tywin shook his head briefly. “Especially when my father is weak, and the westerlands are perilously close to the islands. These things…they can spread.”

He walked on ahead as Aerys paused to think.

_If this is what our friends think….gods know what’s going through the riverlords’ minds._

BRANDA

The thornroad to Nettlebrew Hall was one of the worst she had ever ridden.

Their party was small, just twenty Norreys, along with Branda, Lyarra, Rickard and a handful of the Stark household guards, and Brandon Norrey’s bones. The cart that carried them was a problem; it kept breaking down, forcing the entire group to stop while the axis was repaired. The rest of the mountain clans had ridden ahead to Nettlebrew.

“We’ll be ta the gate shortly,” Lyarra said softly. She kept much closer to Rickard Stark than Branda could remember her doing before.

“Hopefully before dark.” Rickard, it seemed to the elder Stark sister, had changed too; she remembered the moody boy, but this was a man, if a grim one.

“I should think so.” Branda was growing uneasy; the weather changed quickly in the northern mountains, and a head of clouds had begun to build up over the long, gorse-choked hill some time ago.

“Less than that, m’lady,” Marius Harclay called back from the front. He was betrothed to Brandon Norrey’s sister Wylla, and was returning with two new scars and a bag of silver he’d taken from a slain Wynch reaver. “Look ahead.”

As they passed the next bend in the road, a collection of crofters’ houses appeared in the distance, followed by a square fort with a long, thatched hall in the middle. Branda was unimpressed; Breakstone Hill, the seat of her mother’s family, was far better kept than this, with a better defensive position atop a river canyon. Nettlebrew lay on the edge of a blackwater tarn.

There were few people in the tiny village, but most of them lined up along the thornroad as the wagon passed by. Like Brandon, the Norreys were wiry and short of stature, clad in ragged furs that had seen too many winters to keep off the cold. No one wept aloud, but the anger and sadness was plain on their faces. A few of the women sang softly in the Old Tongue, a song that Branda knew, about a young man who’d gone to fight the last of the Greyiron kings on the Stony Shore and never come home.

There were many more men along the walls of the Hall’s courtyard. Arnolf the Norrey, the clan chief and Brandon’s father, waited for them at the doors. His younger sons flanked him, along with Theo the Wull and Haramun Liddle, the oldest of the mountain clan chiefs at sixty years of age.

“I was afeared it’d come ta this.”

Arnolf walked forward as Rickard, Lyarra and Branda dismounted, with Liddle close beside him. They were goodbrothers, unless Branda was mistaken, with Arnolf’s youngest sister, left infertile and widowed by an outbreak of black cough some seven years before, wed to Haramun after his wife had been thrown onto her head by an ill-trained mule.

“The iron born are fookin’ savages.” The old man leaped the side of the wagon and laid his hands on the coffin’s outside. “I knew that. I didna know that he would be stabbed in the back by treacherous trout.”

“I’m sorry,” Lyarra said quietly. “Lord Norrey, if I hadn’t—“

“Hadnt what? Hadn’t called Theomore Tully what he is? Nae, my boy was killed because the little trout couldna stand to hear the truth about hisself.” There were a few tears in Norrey’s eyes as he climbed back down, coming to stand in front of Lyarra. “Brandon had his duty, Lady Stark. It shouldna killed him after t’ war was over and done, but it’s no’ your fault it did. You didna stab him.”

“They killed me nephew like a cut of meat,” Haramun snarled, his hand wrapped around the grip of his axe.

“And my brother!” cried one of the younger Norrey men.

“And mine!”

“And my cousin!”

“Hang the trouts!”

“Smoke them for the winter!”

Rickard remained silent as cries of bloodthirsty anger resounded around the courtyard, until the Norrey raised one fist, and they fell silent.

“Rickard, son of Edwyle the Stark, we want justice for what we lost.”

“And you shall have it. Might we speak in your godswood?”

After directing his men to bring Brandon’s bones to the Norrey crypts, Arnolf mounted his own horse, and led the Starks back out through Nettlebrew’s gates, towards a copse of weirwood trees along the muddy river, a few hundred paces eastward of the castle walls. There were no objections from the Norrey clansmen as they rode outwards; clearly, no one had expected the wolves to discuss their plans in plain air.

As they slid off their animals, Arnolf turned to Rickard quickly.

“Explain how the Tullys will pay.”

“In fire and blood, as the White Dragon might say.”

“Who?” The chieftain was confused.

“The Old Dragon’s grandson, who led us against the squid.”

“And let Theomore Tully walk away,” Theo Wull rumbled.

“He didna kill Brandon, Lord Wull,” Branda answered. She had heard that few of the mountain chieftains cared for women’s counsel, but she had avenged Brandon with her own two hands. The Norreys owed her a hearing. “The dragons cannae haul a man like Tully before their court for vengeance.”

“But they can for treason.” Rickard stepped forward, a scroll in his hands. “This is your vengeance, my lord.”

“How?” Wull said suspiciously.

“While the White Dragon marched westwards, the Darrys refused to supply men to fight the squid, defying a royal command.” Rickard explained. “The king will order them to appear before him at the Red Keep shortly. This is the letter that offers Tully support if they don’t go.” He removed another from his sleeve. “This is the one that commands Lord Tully to appear before the king on pain of exile to the Wall, as he himself failed to either ride out with the White Dragon or force the Darrys to do so.”

“How—“

“Me mother forged these,” Lyarra interjected. “She learned from the best, in Essos, when Father was a sellsword. They’ve the King’s seal and all.”

“This means war, then,” Liddle added.

“Exactly so. The Darrys and Tullys will defy the order, the king will receive a scroll that seems to prove Tully treachery, and the Blackwoods will support the Throne. After that, no one will care if a handful of sellswords sack Riverrun, as long as they don’t carry Norrey banners.”

“They’ll know what you’ve done, Stark.” Marius Harclay sounded wary.

“No, Marius, they won’t. The Darrys have already risen up against the crown once before, against the king’s land reforms. We’re savage Northerners who could never dream of such intrigue.” Rickard was firm.

“Indeed.” Lord Norrey was nodding.

“Young Stark, you’ve shown me the way forward.”

“Tonight we feast, we remember my son’s life. Tomorrow, we plan.”

THEOMORE

The road home was far, far longer than he remembered, and far rainier. The weather had turned shortly after the main body of the river lords had departed Seagard, as if the sky itself were crying for his son.

His son….

Every time the Lord of Riverrun thought of it, his hands tensed up and he had to turn away from the men riding around him. They had laid Hoster to rest in the Blue Fork, far from the waters where his grandfather and great-grandfather and all the Tully lords before him had sunk to the riverbeds as their funeral boats burned. Brynden had been utterly silent throughout the whole thing.

_Strange. He got what he wanted. _He knew his sons had loved the same woman. Theomore would have to keep the betrothal to Minisa Tully, for he needed all his banners close about him. He knew, deep down, that the Mallisters were lost to him. His men at arms had attacked one of the eagles’ guests under their own roof. The Blackwoods too, the tree-loving savages were too close to the wolves for their own good.

If thinking of Hoster on that long journey made Theomore want to cry like a boy, thinking of the Starks made him see red. He had wanted to kill Branda Stark. He had sent Norbert Vance to the tower where they slept after dark, only for the boy to report that Rickard Karstark, who had taken to wielding the axe he’d pulled from Eldred Greyjoy’s dying hands, was still in front of the wolf bitches’ door. Edwyle didn’t scare Theomore, the man was too emotional, too quick to anger. Karstark was another matter. He’d laid the last of the krakens low with his own hands, and reportedly stood as rigid at the third bell in the morning as if it were noon.

And Aerys Targaryen….that one was a menace. His grandfather was a weakling, for all the glory he’d claimed in the Third and Fourth Blackfyre Rebellions, his uncle—_Gods, _Theodore hated the man who’d left his sister sobbing for a smallfolk woman—a fool, his father a greater fool. But Theomore was old enough to remember Maekar Targaryen, and his great-grandson resembled him more than a little. _But at least Maekar kept the seven faces of God. _The boy was a tree-lover, just like the Blackwoods. Theomore had made a play to foster the prince himself, and dearly regretted that it hadn’t worked.

The Reachmen riding ahead of them mostly kept their distance. The Hightowers and Redwynes had returned by sea, leaving only a handful of Tyrell banners from the northern edge of the Reach to go by road. It was just as well, for Theomore suspected that the Hightowers wouldn’t forget his calls to find proper lords for the Iron Islands anytime soon. _They got their cut, at least._

+++

“Explain yourself.”

Theomore was on edge. The young hedge knight had appeared a day after they'd reached Riverrun, claiming urgent business with the Lord of the Trident and rousing him from his brooding in his solar. Brynden had greeted him at the gate, and urged that he be granted an audience.

But this was no hedge knight. His speech was too crisp, tinged with a Reachman's accent, for even a landed knight.

_I know him. _The young man--_a boy, really--_ before him had short-cut black hair and electric blue eyes.

“Father--we’ve met,” Brynden said quietly.

“We have.” The man reached into his tunic and drew out a ring. “No hedge knight would have this, my lord.”

Theomore examined it closely. It was orange—_amber gold, from Norvos—_with three tiny black castles set across the band.

“Starpike. Dunstonbury. Whitegrove.” The lord of Riverrun spoke each word as he tapped a castle. “You’re from House Peake.”

“I _am _House Peake.”

Theomore tipped his head to one side. “Your name?”

“Titus, son of Androw, heir to Starpike,” the young man said bitterly. “The last castle of those three we have left.”

“Because you rebelled,” Brynden growled.

“We lost much, aye. And now we’ll lose more. That boy will be the doom of us all.”

“The White Dragon.”

“You’ve seen his sigil, ser,” Titus fulminated. “The same as Bloodraven the sorcerer, the man who struck Gedmund Peake’s head off with his own hands. Raised by ravens, this prince is. He kneels to trees. Don’t pretend that doesn’t frighten you.”

“We don’t fear a boy of fifteen, ser,” Theomore lied.

“What about the crown? And your own banner men?”

“The crown won’t dare move against me, and I’m starting to wonder why you’re here, Peake.” Theomore walked back towards his desk. “You come disguised as a hedge knight, of all things. Where are you going?”

“Runestone, my lord. I'm to serve as squire to Lord Royce's heir.”

“By way of the Trident? I doubt it.”

“You won’t last the year alone.”

Theomore turned back. “Explain.”

“The wolves have the royal favour, Lord Tully. They haven’t forgiven or forgotten. Your ploughman is about to be called before the Iron Throne, and he won’t go. Once he’s crushed, well…you didn’t ride when first summoned either. Which vassal do you think will be elevated over you soon? Blackwood or Mallister, for my dragons.”

Theomore was struck dumb. The boy had seemingly reached into the inner recesses of his mind, pulling out all his fears and dumping them on the floor of the solar.

“And your lands? The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. The White Dragon’s grandfather has turned the natural order upside down time and time again. Yours will be the lands he gives to smallfolk next.” Titus rose. “Lord Tully, I must be riding, though I hope you’re left with something to think about. Know that you aren’t alone. I brought a raven with me, I’ll leave it with your maester. When you’re in need, let it fly.”

“And where will it go? Starpike?”

“At first. We’ll send another raven when we receive it, to the east.”

“The Stormlands?”

“Essos.”

ULLA 

The seas grew heavier and heavier as they made their way eastwards.

The last fragments of the Iron Fleet had rounded Dorne—_the arse of Westeros, the Velaryons used to call it—_without being set upon by western or Reach fleets, only to encounter a wide band of storms just east of the Greenblood’s mouth. Three ships had been lost, the last from the Saltcliffes, and the remainder had to limp along.

Very much against her will, Ulla had set a course for Volantis. She would have preferred to tack towards the vast Shivering Sea, but the Narrow Sea was crawling with Westerosi war galleys, and had many chokepoints in the Stepstones. Nevertheless, they would have to stop for water soon, she knew. The ironborn had few remaining supplies of any type.

Nor was the sea friendly here. Ulla had expected calmer waters towards the tropics, but the winds sweeping up from the Sunset Sea were unbroken by any shore, and whipped up ferocious summer thunderstorms at the drop of a helmet.

On the third day since the Greenblood storms, they passed near to Lys. Joron had suggested that they land here, but she cautioned against it, and even the toughest and most stubborn reavers among their crews listened when she explained why: Lys could be reached in a matter of days from the stormlands, and the Baratheons would not hesitate to wipe the last Iron Islanders from the map if given the chance—and the knowledge. Volantis was further from the sunset kingdoms, and with a far stronger navy besides.

+++

Their approach wasn’t missed. The twenty longships—another one had gone to the bottom half a day past Lys, taken by a corsair from Sothyros—were escorted in by a Volantene war galley, its sailors regarding them suspiciously. Nor was their reception at the docks especially warm. A young Volantene aristocrat, two tiger-cloak slave soldiers at his side, boarded as soon as _Catshark _was tied to the docks. The other ships had been signalled to wait beyond the breakwater marking the harbour entrance.

“Ironborn?” His accent was quite thick.

Joron wheeled Ulla forward.

“Indeed, my lord…?”

“Qovor Alcaerys. Master of harbour.” His eyes were cold. “Why here?”

“The King on the Iron Throne has exiled us, Lord Alcaerys. Stole our lands, and slaughtered our families.” She tried to use her sweetest tones, never an easy feat for any Wynch. “We seek use of your shipyards. We have gold.”

“Ironborn always trouble, I hear.” The Volantene let his hand rest on the pommel of his sword. It was plain grey, made for work and not show. “No iron price for repairs?”

“Unless you seek sellsails, my lord, then no,” Joron added.

“We do, but these very small ships. Very small.” The distaste in the man’s voice was ill-concealed. “For raids in Narrow Sea.”

Ulla could hear a hiss of anxious breath from Joron. After all the time they had spent trying to keep well away from Westeros’ eastern coast…

“Are they hiring in Slavers’ Bay?”

“Maybe. Don’t know. Don’t care. You pay in gold. You want to sell sails, find me again. Everyone here know where I am, always. You cause trouble, your sailors cause trouble, sold into slavery, whoever cause trouble. Not all, but whoever cause trouble. Understand?”

“Aye, and thank you.”

The Volantene snorted as he turned to leave, the tiger cloaks keeping close beside him.

“We’ll have to sail on, then.” Joron sighed heavily.

“We can’t. We need supplies.”

“Ulla—“

“We can’t!” she snapped. “There’s not gold enough to buy food for a voyage all the way around the Lands of the Long Summer, even if we fish, little fish as there is here!”

“The Baratheons—“

“Can go fuck themselves. If the Volantenes want sellsails, we sell our sails. Signal to the rest to make their way towards the shipyards.”

_Drowned God watch over us all._

At least they would be faster when they had to put to sea again.

Maybe the Iron Throne would be looking elsewhere.

Just maybe.

RHAELLA

As she settled back into her chambers in the Red Keep, Rhaella was able to shake herself out of the fog that had hung above her head since Seagard.

What replaced it was cold fury. The Tullys had slaughtered Brandon Norrey like a pig ready for their table. Oh, she had said little enough in those first, wild hours in the Booming Tower, still numb with shock and grief, but that time had now passed. She understood her grandfather’s fear, she really did, but—_I cannot let this rest._

“Rhae?”

Her father had come to her door almost silently. Jaehaerys Targaryen had remarkably quiet feet, her mother always said.

“Yes.” She rose from her seat by the window. Father was waiting for her at the door. He looked better since she had returned, much stronger somehow. His colouring was a bit redder.

“Walk with me?”

She followed him and Ser Gwayne into the gardens. It was unseasonably hot, and a good many courtiers were taking advantage of the fresh air. Rhaella waited patiently as her father smiled and greeted those that came over to him. Jaehaerys had an easy, mild manner to him that led many nobles, especially those who spent little time in King’s Landing, to seek him out if they needed a favour, or a word with her grandfather. For all that his love match with her mother had caused Aegon V so much upset, her father was a great political asset, with a gift for subtlety that often escaped her grandparents.

“You’re mourning the Norrey boy.”

They had turned into a quieter section of the garden.

“Yes.” She picked a rose from one of the few bushes nearby—all of Betha Blackwood’s family knew never to have a conversation next to a thick hedgerow where a spy could be crouched. “I knew there was nothing to be had from it, father, but he was sweet.”

“I can hardly lecture you for that.” Jaehaerys stopped to look at one of the Queen Alysanne’s lace blooms. “Not after all I’ve done.”

“I…I was to meet him, after the feast.”

Her father stilled. “And?”

“Walk, I think…in the garden.”

“Listen to me.” His tone was stern now. “You must be careful with these things, do you ubdnerstand?”

“I had…”

“What? You had what?”

“…moon tea. In case.”

Jaehaerys hissed in a long breath. “That was…unwise.”

“Why?”

“If you ever have a bastard, it’ll be Daemon Blackfyre come again, especially—well, you must not. The tea doesn’t always work, Rhae. That’s why you had an Uncle Daeron, and never repeat that.”

“Really?”

“Aye.”

“And what did you mean, especially?”

“I…well, perhaps it wouldn’t be such a problem with Norrey, but still…you’re too young. Four and ten isn’t old enough for a child.”

“That isn’t what you meant.”

He sighed as they began walking again. “Very well. Rhae, Aerys will have a very hard time keeping the Iron Throne.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Father, he won a war at _fifteen. _Surely you can’t think…what?”

“He should never have gone to Raventree Hall.” Her father’s tone was grave. “I didn’t want him to worship the old gods like your grandmother does. I thought that a few years wouldn’t do any harm, and that it was more important for him to learn to behave himself, to be a prince instead of a brat. But your brother will never have as tight a hold on the Seven Kingdoms as I will, or even your grandfather. He’s vulnerable.”

“But strong.”

“Indeed, more so because he refused what I planned for the two of you.” Her father’s expression was downcast. “Rhae, I am truly sorry that I tried that. Duncan, in his own way, is sorry that his woods witch suggested it. It wasn’t fair to either of you, and it would’ve done the family no good. Please forgive me.”

“I do.” It was easy, she found. She hadn’t had to live with the dread of being forced into her brother’s bed, not when he’d sworn his oath for the whole realm to hear, so quickly. It seemed a little like a dream. Rationally, she understood why it was a bad idea—but she had no anger or resentment built up inside her.

“Thank you.”

“I think it would be best if Grandmother were to write to Lady Hightower.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I saw Leyton Hightower close up, father. I liked the man I saw. And having closer ties to a family with so many members of the Most Devout would be…helpful.”

“Mention it to her, and your mother.” Jaehaerys laughed. “You’re much more sensible than I was at your age, you know. The Norrey boy aside.”

“What happened to him was wrong.”

“And Hoster Tully’s dead.”

“His father paid no price. _None of them _did.”

“Yet.” He shook his head slowly. “This business with the Darrys is not yet over, Rhae. That is all I will say, and the Tullys will do well to remember that.”

“Father…I don’t wish to evade all this, but…what changed when we were gone?”

“Hmmm?”

“You seem stronger. Not as pale.”

“I don’t know why.” Jaehaerys lapsed into silence for a moment. “It was about a day after the battle at the Cape, Rhae. I’d had a coughing fit the night before, but then I woke up, and…I don’t know what happened. I felt _better. _I had my energy back, like I did ten years ago. I’ve started going to the tiltyard in the morning again.”

“You did?” She was shocked. Her father had been a quick and deadly fighter when younger, never on the level of her uncle Daeron, but very skilled with a spear and a crossbow. He’d won many jousts. But she’d never dreamed he’d take it up again.

“It’s taking me time to get back to where I was.” They were still walking, she realised, and that was itself quite unusual. Jaehaerys normally would’ve had to stop for breath by now. “But I don’t wish to be a weak king, daughter. The first Jaehaerys always said that his father wasn’t taken seriously because he was weak of arm. Daeron II, much the same thing. He was wise, clever, capable, but he couldn’t command men in battle, and Daemon could.”

She nodded. “Father…has Aerys spoken to you about a betrothal? For him?”

“Not yet.” Her father sighed. “Personally, I favour Lyra Dondarrion, but your mother thinks her family too weak. Perhaps Lord Lannister’s daughter, but he sounded weak from what Aerys said to me.”

“Or the Stark girl. Branda.”

Her father looked at her incredulously, then began to laugh. Rhaella joined in, the first time since Brandon had died.

“Oh gods, the look Lord Tully would have on his face…” The prince of Dragonstone had to wipe his eyes. “Can you imagine?”

“I’m imagining them running off and the look on Grandfather’s.”

“Oh, that would be _so _much worse than what we did. Maybe he’d finally let go of my sins.” Jaehaerys was chuckling as they turned back towards the Keep.

SER MARIUS GRAFTON

It was halfway through Marius’ watch when the little rat crept into the City Watch barracks at Clamdiggers’ Way.

“Yes?” He motioned for her to close the door. A skinny little thing, indeed. He really ought to make sure his rats got enough coin to eat. Unless she was giving it to her family. _Still…if she has to choose between the two, it’s trouble._

“Septon Jon, of the Squashmarket Square sept, will have some very interesting things to say about the White Dragon, Aerys Targaryen, this evening, ser.”

“That’s all?”

“Treasonous things, ser.”

“Such as?”

“That he’s unfit to be king.”

“And you heard he’d say these things from—“

“Myself, ser. He talked a good deal while I was on my knees.”

_Some septon. _The girl couldn’t be more than four and ten. For that alone, Marius was sure he could find some reason to haul the man into Clamdiggers’ Way. The man might be holy, but Marius was commander of the Gulltown watch, and grandnephew of Lord Grafton himself.

“Return home, then, with these.” He tossed her a few moons and stags, the last coin in his heavy oaken writing desk. “I thought you were a serving girl at that old inn in Shett Square.”

“It doesn’t pay enough for food, ser. Not alone.”

“I see.” He wanted to send her to _his _home, ask his grandfather to find her a place in the Albatross Tower, but knew that he couldn’t do so without raising suspicion, and losing one of the most valuable of his rats. She’d already found a murderer for him a moon’s turn ago, after the man had led most of the watch in a merry dance around the Strand.

He set out shortly afterwards, in the longshoreman’s clothes he usually wore when trying to go unnoticed, Franklyn Stone and Pate the Finger close behind him. It was raining heavily— _storms off the bloody Narrow Sea again, they’ll be the bloody death of me for chill—_and they kept close to the overhanging edges of the buildings about them. Gulltown always looked best in the rain, he thought, and bugger whoever thought otherwise.

Squashmarket Square was small, but the sept was packed as the three men slipped into the back.

“…the Father’s forgiveness may be boundless, but his true mercy and love is reserved for the holy and the devout.” The septon was in full flow. “And brothers, and sisters, are we among the holy and devout? For now, but things have changed.”

Marius found himself crossing his arms, leaning up against the back of the sept.

“For it is written, ‘suffer not the rule of the unholy, and the unclean, and those who keep many false gods at their hearth.’ Prince or no prince, dragon or no dragon, we cannot allow that a tree worshipper, a man descended from the last heathens of the Riverlands, be entrusted with the protection of the Faith. Can you imagine that it will last long? That we shall be allowed our traditions? Or will septs fall?”

“No!” someone shouted from the back.

“Will weirwoods be planted again on our graves? Those who refuse be sacrificed to nameless demons of rock or water?!??”

“NO!”

“Keep an eye on whoever’s making that noise. Follow them, meet us at Clamdiggers’ Way,” Marius murmured to Pate, who winked and slipped into the crowd.

But by now, it had spread.

“Will we stand by, weakly?”

“NO!” the crowd roared.

“Then brothers and sisters, we must insist, that the White Dragon see Our light!” Jon cried. “A strong man in arm, yes, but his faith is corrupted! He can change, but—“

“I’ve heard enough. We’ll have the cloaks pick him up.” Marius and Franklyn slipped out again, as quiet as when they’d entered.

Walking back towards their headquarters, Marius directed a pair of uniformed watchmen to bring Septon Jon in as quietly as possible, and fell deep into thought.

He’d gotten what he wanted, a reason to throw the septon into one of the kelp cells for the night, but knew the price was too high. The crowd had been susceptible to the man’s message, far too susceptible if you asked him. He’d heard little about the White Dragon beyond the defeat the boy had inflicted upon the reavers at the Cape of Eagles. That he kept the old gods troubled Marius little; he’d sailed often to White Harbour in his youth, once all the way to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea with a supply ship for the Watch, and dealt with Pentoshi, Braavosi and Lorathi sailors on a daily basis. He was comfortable with religions other than the Seven. But he’d thought most Gulltowners were the same, and this evening suggested that they were more narrow-minded than he’d thought before.

Pate’s report was even more troubling.

“He left the city, m’lord, immediately,” the dark-haired watchman told him, gulping down a small beaker of Hunter Hall stout as Marius and Franklyn hung on his every word. “Hopped a cart bound for the Redfort. Wasn’t very subtle about it either.”

“So he weren’t a regular there,” Franklyn rumbled. Marius’ bastard cousin crossed his beefy arms. “Is this septon in the cells yet?”

“Aye, let’s have words with him.” Marius rose and reached for a torch.

The Lamprey Water, a subterranean inlet from the harbour, ran under Clamdiggers’ Way. The cells were built on a rickety iron grid over the water, with thick, slimy seaweed clinging to every surface. The septon turned immediately as Marius approached.

“Ser, what is the meaning of this? Unhand me!”

“Just have to ask a few questions first, septon.” Marius gestured for the other two to hang back. “Where have you been hearing about all these terrible things Prince Aerys is going to do?”

“Is it not obvious?”

“Not really. Did another septon tell you these things?”

“You’re here to defend a tree-worshipper?” The septon shook his head. “You’ve fallen far, my son.”

“As have you.” Marius grinned a little. “Four and ten is young for a whore, septon. Too young.”

The man’s face changed not a muscle. “Indeed, my son, but why are you telling me this?”

“Oh, you’re good, septon, quite good.” The Grafton watchman leaned up against the door to the man’s cell. “The girl you had earlier today is known to me, septon. You know, I think I know her father as well. And her uncle. Perhaps they’d like to know—“

The man’s composure began to chip a little. “You’re bluffing, my son. Your zeal for the law has led you to—“

“—want you to suffer because you had a little girl working your cock earlier, yes.” Marius leaned forward. “I don’t doubt other people will say these things, septon. You’re up to something. You have no reason to be this evasive if you just heard these things on the street. I don’t know what’s going on here, but I don’t like it. So, if you want to help me and yourself, you will explain to me who, exactly, has begun spreading these rumours. Or you can meet that girl’s father. We cant keep you here that long, of course, so you’ll meet him sooner or later.”

“Damn you.”

“Fuck you, child-toucher.” Marius could feel heat rising into his face, and hand to work to keep it from erupting. He very rarely struck prisoners, and had been warned by his father, a Watch officer himself for many years before his death of a pox, not to make it a habit.

“Very well.” The septon sighed. “A young septon, he is, named Gerion. Of Reach origin. He’s been preaching on the road, as an itinerant septon for small villages, for a few years, Barefoot, ragged clothes. Very devout.”

“And he’s preaching against the king’s grandson now.” He gestured for Franklyn to begin noting down what the man was saying. Pate could neither read nor write.

“What he says, is what you’ve heard me say, ser. I assume you were the ones in the back?”

Marius’ face must have shown surprise, for the septon grinned a little bit.

“You can’t think I didn’t notice you, watchman. I know every member of my flock.”

“What are they like?”

“My flock? Gods-fearing folk. Humble. Hard working.”

“Mostly from Gulltown?”

“No. Your lord granduncle’s new docks have attracted many souls to Gulltown, my son, mostly to work laying roads. My flock come from the Arryn and Royce holdings, like myself.”

“So you’re not a Gulltowner.”

“Not by birth.”

“How’d you meet Gerion?”

“We were together at a septry by Coldwater Burn. He never fit in, of course. Too rigorous, too devout. He’ll never stop moving unless they make him High Septon.”

_Some peasant, the head of the Faith? Guess he’ll be on the road until he dies, then. _“He’s been to Gulltown lately?”

“I returned to visit my brother’s family at the gates of Runestone, he was preaching to one of the smaller villages. He knew I was near. A roving septon keeps his ear well to the ground, my son.”

“I see.” Marius pushed himself off the doorjamb and stretched. “Septon Jon, you’ll be released for the time being. If Gerion enters Gulltown, you will tell me. If you see him outside Gulltown, or hear of where he is, you will tell me.”

“You wish for me to inform on my brother septon?”

“You wish to meet the girl’s father? No? Then keep me informed.” Gesturing for the turnkey, a portly man with a harelip, to let the man go, Marius turned and walked away, his left and right hands close behind him.

“Pate. Tell whomever you know that I seek the septon Gerion.”

The thin man nodded. “I swear on me father’s soul, ser.”

“Liar.” The two laughed. “Did you even know his name, Pate?”

“Bronn, ser, same name I’ll give me own son. Vicious bastard, he was. A sailor.”

“Same as mine,” Franklyn added. Marius’ uncle, for whom he’d been named, had died chasing Ibbenese sellsails into the Shivering Sea when Maekar I still sat the Iron Throne.

His bastard son had been raised by a branch of the Gulltown Arryns, and sent to the watch when he was five and ten. Marius always thanked the gods—_and my uncle, if he can see me from wherever he’s gone—_for giving him a watchman that could write.

He took the long way home to his lodgings that night, visiting the beggars, cartmen, whores, wheelwrights and bakers that he’d cultivated over the years. A few things came back to him as he hung around the doorways of workshops, little taverns and bakeries. Ysilla Stone, the Little Green Ghost, was pregnant, possibly by Ser Shett. A dog had been nipping at the horses in Stormy Brook Yard, and been shot with a crossbow by a driver from the Reach. A handful of ironborn had made their way to the city, seeking to sign on with merchantmen out of the Free Cities.

But mostly he asked, about septons. Gerion, he learned from a wheelwright by the Albatross Bridge, was called the Sparrow by those who knew him well. He’d been to Gulltown once or twice, and been thrown out of six whorehouses the second time, he was told by the madam who’d thrown him out of the fourth. The other septons thought he was a bit mad, but feared to cross him, said the baker at Colliers’ Hill. That last part, Marius thought as he finally reached his own house, was the most troubling part. He didn’t know if the rest of the Faith’s men and women would decide to follow in the Sparrow’s footsteps. One of his rats, a dockworker, had told him that his cousin at Berrybuckle, in House Wydman’s lands, had seen the man a sennight past, so Marius wrote a letter before he went to bed, to be given to a raven in the Albatross Tower the next morning. The Gulltown Watch lacked its own messaging system, so his last name was an advantage here.

_I also have to figure out where that cheering man came from. _He’d no informants in the Redfort lands, but hoped one of his cousins might.

_And who sent him._

_ _


	11. Update to Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not a new chapter—I added some pieces to 10.

See summary


	12. Chapter 12

ULLA

_The fifteen captains gathered around the table at the back of the Catshark, their arms crossed, their faces grim. After weeding out the cripples and children—but not the women, they didn’t have enough hands to do that—they had crew enough for a good-sized fleet. And yet, the men around her were old, mostly bastards or smallfolk reavers. The two child lords, Urrigon Harlaw of Crow Spike Keep and Benarr Goodbrother of Corpse Lake, had been placed on one of the ships that would remain behind._

_“It takes near a moon’s turn to sail the length of the Narrow Sea,” Dunstan Pyke rasped. A Reachman’s axe blow had nearly opened his throat many years before. “Done it in Dagon’s day.”_

_Ulla nodded slowly. “All the way to Braavos?”_

_“Braavosi don’t like us,” Haaka Goodbrother added somberly. In her forties, she’d been a captain’s rock wife, until he was ridden down by a Redwyne at the Cape of Eagles. “Vergel was always complaining they wouldn’t even sell him rations.”_

_Quenta Stonetree nodded. Skilled with needle and thread, she’d sailed with Dagon Greyjoy after saving him from a shark wound. “They’ll like us less now.”_

_The Volantenes had hired them to harry the Braavosi, whose navy had grown too pushy for the Triarchs’ taste. Slave ships bound for Meereen had been repeatedly sunk by the Titan’s privateers over the last few months, as the new Sealord struggled to prove that contrary to his critics’ attacks, he was ready to take action against slavery in all its forms. For a sum so low that Ulla had almost walked out when Qovor proposed it, the ironborn would draw Braavosi ships northward from the Stepstones, accompanied by a patchwork fleet of Sothyrosi and YiTish corsairs, most of whom had larger and stronger ships than they did._

_“We don’t do what we do to be liked,” Joron replied sharply._

_“We don’t do it to be sunk, either. This is a suicide mission.”_

_“Then we die on our feet,” Dunstan Pyke rasped. Well, some of us do. “At least we’ll have our honour. Pirates or no.”_

_His words still echoed in her ears the next morning, as the last of the Iron Fleet weighed anchor for the Narrow Sea…._

_..for it’s little more than pirates that we remain._

Ulla had taken the tiller. The last of the Wynch men hadn’t wanted her to come herself, but she’d brushed off their complaints, even Joron, who looked distinctly unhappy.

They had passed the Isle of Tarth yesterday morning, just visible on the horizon to her left, and were now within striking distance of Stonedance, in the crownlands. Pentoshi and Braavosi ships were out in force, mostly searching for one another, and they’d had to cut far closer to the edge of the stormlands than she would’ve chosen. If they’d time, she would’ve ordered the little flotilla to sack Estermont when they’d gone by—but they didn’t. Lhang Qi Xan, the long-haired YiTish pirate who led the Essosi ships, was in no mood to wait for her, or provoke the Iron Throne’s wrath.

_We’ll be in for it shortly as is. _They were approaching the one region in the Narrow Sea that she feared most—the mouth of Blackwater Bay, near the Royal Fleet’s moorings at Dragonstone. She could already see the makeup of the water changing; it had been clear and blue by Tarth, but was turning brown-black from the silt expelled by the Seven Kingdoms’ second river. Her brother had claimed that the Trident could change the colour of the seas a hundred leagues offshore.

“Lady—Captain.”

Urrigon Goodbrother, her uncle’s former captain of the guards, had come to the back of the longship.

“Aye.” She kept her eyes on the seas ahead.

“The YiTish has signalled he’ll tack starboard in another hour. We’re nearly to the Gullet.”

_Damn and blast. _“As he wishes. The others?”

“Keeping behind us.”

“As well.” _Catshark _shouldn’t be the quickest vessel in any fleet, but she usually outpaced the other longships with ease. Privately, she hoped they could steal Braavosi ships when they reached Essos.

As Urri turned to return forward, Joron came up, clear agitation in his eyes.

“Ulla, I need a word.”

“You and the rest of the world,” she muttered. She’d been unimportant back on Pyke, Gerold Wynch’s crippled niece, who could count and read well enough to keep the family from owing more money than they could scrape together. Now, she was beginning to understand why the last Lord Wynch had embraced every distraction he could find. The constant demands on her attention were more than a little wearying.

_But Jor’s been a friend since we were small children. _“I’m sorry.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “What is it?”

“We’re sailing straight into an ambush,” he said as quietly as possible.

Ulla’s head jerked up, only for Joron to shake his own. “Not like that, not here, not yet. When we sail eastwards. The Braavosi will be where we’re going.”

“How do you know?”

‘“I…please trust me on this.”

“No.” Ulla caught his chin when he tried to turn away. “I will not. Not without proof, without more than your word.”

“Ulla…”

“Explain yourself, Joron. It isn’t like you to make things up.”

“I saw them sailing southwards,” he confessed quietly. “But…but not through my own eyes.”

Ulla was dead silent for a moment. She remembered everything she’d heard about Farwynd madness, about the lords who’d walked into the sea to go meet the Drowned God—but also what she’d heard about the seals around the Lonely light, how they guided the Farwynds’ guests through even the worst storms, around the rocks. Almost like they…

…_were people._

“You’re a selkie.”

He winced visibly. “Not…not so loud. People don’t like our kind, Ulla.”

“Prove it.”

“Now?”

“Yes.” She crossed her arms, wedging the rudder against her useless knees. “Your lady commands it.”

“So be it.” Joron turned and walked away, slipping beneath the deck.

Her puzzlement lasted only a moment. Before she could call for Jor to return, or apologise, a gull landed before her.

_What on earth….? _She hadn’t even realised that they had gulls aboard; the _Catshark _was very far out to sea.

Hopping onto her knee, it extended its leg, as though for a handshake.

“You win,” she said very quietly, hoping that none of the crew had noticed. “Come back.”

The gull suddenly backed away from her, taking to the air and circling up to the top of the sail—where, she realised, another one was awaiting its return. A moment later, Joron reemerged from belowdecks, seeming a little shaky on his feet.

“Drowned God be good,” she muttered. “Where’d you even find a gull?”

“Ulla, they’ve been atop the mast the whole time.” He settled down beside her, a piece of worn-out rigging in his hands, and began to repair it—_so that he looks like he’s working. _“Since the night we fled.”

“And how long with you?”

“Since the Lonely Light.” His hands were quick on the damaged cordage. “My father, he taught me how to call to them, how to escape into their heads. You call me a selkie, and that’s true—but we all begin with gulls. Warm-blooded animals are the hardest to borrow their skin.”

“So, you’re telling me they flew all the way across the Narrow Sea?”

“No. I found a whale, believe it or not. Can’t get it to do anything it doesn’t want to, not even close, but it’s excellent for watching, and it was curious about the ships. The Braavosi navy…they know we’re coming. They’ve spies in Volantis, more than I think the Triarchs realise. They’ll ambush us all before we reach the coast, at night. It’s foggy this time of year there, right where Andalos meets the sea. Just before the dawn, banks of mist roll down off the hills.”

“They said all this?”

“Not the part about the mist. The whale sort of…_knows _that. It changes how the fish behave, you know.”

“Right,” Ulla said sarcastically.

“You’re unsure.”

“You’ve just dumped a whole damn lot onto my lap, Jor.”

“True.” He fell silent for a moment. The rigging was as good as new.

“What would you do?”

“Quit the job.”

“We’d have no money, and have come all this way for nothing.”

“In that case, ambush them in the same fog once they’re occupied with our YiTish friends, carry out the village raids that the Volantenes wanted, and pocket the coin from all the other ships.”

“We don’t have the men to do that.”

“No. We don’t.”

“Then why’d you suggest it?”

“I didn’t. I said to quit the job. Sail north and then east, find land or islets in the Shivering Sea, raise a village, fish. Not fight anymore.”

She looked at him, surprised.

“But you won’t do that,” he sighed.“No one here will do that. So, we try what I suggested. Or hang back, let the YiTish absorb the force of the ambush, and then slip around to hit the villages, hoping that the Braavosi don’t catch us before we’re off again.”

Looking up, she saw that the YiTish were beginning their eastward hook.

“We’ve three days to decide,” the Farwynd boy said quietly, turning to go. “Or rather, you do.

“Just don’t rely too much on your pride.”

AERYS

The sun was barely peeking over the same sea when Aerys descended to the training yard, Gwayne Gaunt and Tywin close behind him. He set his mace down at the edge, taking up one of the enormous iron bars he favoured for exercise instead.

“Surprised your arm doesn’t break under the weight,” Tywin remarked as he drew his blunt-edged tourney sword.

“When I was a boy, it nearly did. The Blackwoods gave me a big axe, the one I demanded from the armoury, and it was like carrying one of the Mountains of the Moon.” The two young men squared off. “Took me three moons’ turn of work to be able to fight with it.”

“I can believe it.” Then there was silence as they rushed at each other. Tywin was quite good, certainly better than any of the ironborn he’d cut down at the Cape. But he couldn’t match the White Dragon’s strength. The tourney sword was chipped and dented after a few moments, and began to bend soon after. Aerys knocked it from the Lannister heir’s several times with the force of his swings.

“Gods…” Tywin put his arm up for a moment of rest, which Aerys granted him. “How do you…”

“Four hours, every morning, when I was a boy. Running mostly when I first went to Raventree Hall, then more and more weights as I aged. Weapons were the last part, though I’d learned before at the Keep.” Aerys had been lazy as a child, something that Edmund Blackwood had knocked out of him in the first few moons.

“…surprised if anyone could keep up.”

“Steffon can.” The Baratheon boy towered over Aerys, and could knock him into the dust with ease. “I think the Greyjoys could have. Any of the Kingsguard, of course. And my cousins from Raventree.”

“You seem to know pretty well.”

“I keep a list. Steffon, the Kingsguard, Tytos and Robb, Edmund and Benjicot, Rickard Karstark. The men that I know can beat me.”

“Karstark….must be new.”

“He is.” Aerys could picture the scene from Seagard as though it were yesterday; the Squidslayer had instantly brought his axe up when he heard Aerys, Uncle Edmund, Edwyle and Ser Patrek approaching to speak with Branda and Lyarra. Moreover, he had seen the boy kill the last Lords Greyjoy, one after the other. _The Karstarks should have a shadowcat on their banners. Quick, stalking, deadly._

“Let’s resume.”

The voice came from behind them. Turning, Aerys felt his mouth drop open in surprise. His father had entered the courtyard, Ser Maron Santigar close behind him. But not to watch; Jaehaerys was clad in a heavy leather tunic, with sparring gloves and a sword at his side.

“Father…what…”

“A fine morning for a spar. Aerys?” He drew his sword, extending it in challenge.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You wont. Fetch your bar.”

Muttering under his breath, Aerys lifted the giant weapon, spun it once or twice—his father didn’t bat an eye—and then squared off. _This is strange._

“Slow at first, or—“

The bar spun from his hands and clattered on the cobblestones. Shocked, Aerys glanced up to see his father’s sword at his chest.

“Pick it up, and try again.”

_Then this is real. _Aerys inched backwards, rolled over and came up swinging.

Only to realise that his father was far, far better than Tywin. The Lannister knight had tried to match him strength for strength. Jaehaerys ducked, redirected his son’s iron bar by hooking his sword behind it, struck upwards to get under Aerys’ guard—but it wasn’t enough. The few times that the White Dragon caught the Prince of Dragonstone’s blade still dented it, still weakened Jaehaerys’ grip. Nevertheless, he lasted for what seemed like an hour, managing to pick up his sword every time it was knocked from his hands, before Aerys could force him to yield. As they fought, a few more people drifted into the courtyard. Rhaella first, with their mother and a small smile playing across her lips, then Lord Appledon and Uncle Duncan.

“Enough.” After being disarmed for the sixth time, Jaehaerys held his hands up in surrender. “No more, Ae. You’ve outmatched me.”

“Are you all right?” Aerys stepped forward, fearful that his father was about to take a coughing fit.

“Yes.”

“He hasn’t fallen truly ill for some time now.” Shaera had come up beside them, wrapping her arm around her husband’s. “Not since a bit after you left. Now, come along, my dragon. Father’s summoned you.”

“Is the court to sit already?” Aerys inquired.

“No, but the young knight who’s going to summon the Darrys will ride out shortly,” his mother replied. “They didn’t answer the last raven sent, so now they’ll get a rider, whom we will hopefully have back in one piece.”

As the couple left, Rhaella leaned into her brother’s ear. “They’re definitely bedding again.”

“Rhae!” His ears turned scarlet.

She laughed. “’Tis true.’

“You seem better.”

His sister looked around before speaking; the small knot of people had mostly left with their father. “I can sit around and cry for Brandon, Ae, or I can do something about it.”

“I…suppose you’re right.”

“The clansman?” Tywin asked gravely.

“Their next chieftain.”

“I hadn’t heard that bit.”

“No.” He could hear the anger in Rhae’s voice now. “No, you wouldn’t have, Ser Tywin, because all that anyone wanted to talk about was Lyarra Stark, who walked away unhurt. Not the man who got a sword through his gut.”

“He was practically smallfolk.”

“He was kind, and funny, and loyal to his liege lady, ser, and the trout stabbed him in the gut.”

“You expected them to try and tie him up instead?”

“They treated him like a piece of meat!”

“Enough.” Aerys held up his hands. “Tywin, the man was murdered. Surely you can see—“

“—not to trust gossip, clearly. I had heard that it was a lowborn man-at-arms that died.” Tywin sighed. “Your Grace, I am sorry that this man died the way he did, at an ally’s hands. But the attack on Lyarra Stark could have led to war. Brandon was collateral damage, his death, as you have pointed out, not what people wanted to remember—because it wasn’t going to lead to thousands more deaths of Stark and Tully soldiers. It may not be right, or pretty, but it is what happens to guards all the time.”

“It might still lead to war,” Rhaella muttered, clearly trying to stamp down her irritation. “The Norreys, his family, were _furious, _my lord.”

“I don’t doubt it, but they’re not Wardens of the North.”

“It’ll come to grief nonetheless.” Ser Gwayne surprised all of them; Aerys had rarely heard the man’s surprisingly high-pitched, hollow voice before. “Your Graces, Ser Tywin, my grandfather knew Rodrik Stark when they were both boys, and squiring at Runestone. He’s implacable. And it was his daughter that Hoster Tully tried to ravish.”

“Not to mention Edwyle Stark,” Aerys added. The small group began to walk back towards the Keep. “He’s a short temper to him, and no mistake.”

“A weakness in a lord,” Tywin said coolly.

“Aye.” Aerys realised that the other man was sweating heavily. “Is it that warm out, Tywin?” As the son of two Targaryens, he rarely felt overheated as Andals or First Men might in the summer. _As Ser Duncan used to say, who ever heard of a sweaty dragon?_

The Lannister heir looked at him in surprise. “I’m surprised you hadn’t heard all the remarks made at court, Aerys. It’s unseasonably warm for this time of year. Turned for the better shortly after the Cape.”

“I wonder if that’s why Father feels better,” Rhaella mused.

“Weather doesn’t usually help him,” Aerys replied as they turned towards Maegor’s Holdfast, and Tywin towards his own quarters. “I’m not sure…hmmmm.”

“What?”

“I think there was a Targaryen who had lung trouble like Father did, but I can’t remember which one. He got better…I’m sorry, I was never very good with family history.”

“Aenys,” Rhaella said instantly. “The first Jaehaerys’ father. They gave him a dragon, and he wasn’t sick anymore.”

“Well, I don’t suppose anyone’s given Father one. We’d notice.”

“I should think…”

By the time Aerys had washed himself, eaten and come down to the main hall, his grandfather was already holding court. His mother, father and sister stood to the side, allowing Aegon V, Betha Blackwood and Lord Appleton to capture the Red Keep’s full attention. Watching, Aerys shook his head quietly. Despite being Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, his grandfather seemed to spend most of his time on the Iron Throne dealing with very small, very local complaints, mostly from Kingslanders. He had wondered if it would be possible to transfer some of the work to his parents, but Aegon was determined to hear from every member of the smallfolk who came before him. Instead, it was Prince Jaehaerys who ended up handling many of the more serious concerns, from lords appealing against their own lieges. _Completely backwards, it is._

Hearing a rumbling of murmurs from near the door, he looked up.

The next petitioner now stepping forth was a septon, clearly one of the more important ones. A thin man with a hooked nose and a reddish face, his long robes caught about his feet as he walked forth slowly.

“Come forth and be heard,” Aegon called as the man reached the foot of the throne.

“Your Grace.” The man knelt briefly.

“Your name, ser?”

“Wyllis, Archsepton of Gulltown, Your Grace, here on behalf of petitioners of the Faith.”

“I had not heard of your arrival from the High Septon, ser,” Aegon said, seemingly a little confused. Now Aerys was as well. _If the High Septon didn’t send him, who did?_

“The High Septon…has seemingly had other concerns of late, and our petition is urgent,” the septon replied. “It regards the protection of the Faith by the crown, Your Grace.”

“That is the High Septon’s concern, so I am uncertain why you are here.”

“Your Grace…you were raised in the Faith, as were your…children.” A note of distaste crept into Wyllis’ voice. “Your grandson has strayed.”

Hisses of shock went up from around the court. Jaehaerys looked at his son with narrowed eyes, and a resigned expression.

“How so?”

“Prince Aerys has fallen into the ways of the old…gods.” The Targaryen prince could see a flash of anger across his grandmother’s face. “It is known, from the knights of the Vale who fought at his side at the Cape of Eagles, that he prayed to weirwoods after the main fight had ended.”

“I did.” Aerys stepped forward, forcing the septon to turn to him. “I prayed for the dead, and the families they would never see anymore. I prayed for the men that we might be about to lose, for I thought we would sail shortly for Pyke. And I gave thanks that I lived through that fight, Archsepton. As the knights who rode with us prayed in the Seagard sept.”

“That may be so,” the archsepton answered, “but you will have an obligation to follow the true Faith once crowned, as was agreed between the first King Aegon and the godly people of this realm.”

“I protected people who worshipped in septs against the Drowned God’s followers. I do not understand why that isn’t enough.”

“The _Seven-Pointed Star,” _the archsepton answered patronisingly, “makes clear that we are to follow no ungodly or unbelieving rulers, as children of the Seven. The lords of Westeros—“

“—followed Aegon the Fourth, as ungodly and dissolute a man as ever walked the Seven Kingdoms.” His mother had spoken up, her voice tight with anger. “Where was the Faith’s anger then? My son is at least devout to _something, _Archsepton. Do you prefer a show of false faith to true belief?”

“Enough.” Aegon had risen from his seat. “Archsepton, if this is the true interpretation of the _Seven-Pointed Star, _the High Septon would have brought it before me. He did not. You heard Aerys, he protected the innocent at the Cape. Let this be the end to this business.” At the end, his voice reassumed the iron tones of a king, accustomed to being obeyed.

“The Iron Throne has not heard the last of this, Your Grace.” Wyllis of Gulltown bowed, and left the room. The irritation was clear on his face.

OSMUND DARRY

“He’s here.”

Lord Osmund Darry turned from the window of his solar to face the page at the door. “His name?”

“Ser Bonifer, of House Hasty of the stormlands. He awaits you in the hall, my lord.”

“I shall be with him shortly.” Osmund waved the man away. Once the door had shut, he turned once again to his visitor.

“You’re having doubts.”

“You would, in my position.”

The younger man sighed. “I am in your position, my lord. My brother has already worked to stir up anger in the Vale. I am visiting you before you say what you’re about to say. Believe me, I will hang as high as yourself if caught.”

“You have a strong castle at your feet, lad. We’re a few days ride from King’s Landing here.”

“A ride that very, very few people are likely to make. You’ve seen the letter.”

_Indeed I have. _A raven from Lord Tully, offering support and warning Osmund not to reply to it yet, had reached him a few days back. His visitor had seen it too, and told Osmund that one of his ‘brothers in arms’ had been to Riverrun of late. _How many of them there are, I don’t know…and that’s the frightening part. _He would never have thought that the man before him could be so deceptive, so cunning.

“We will have your back, as well as the other riverlords, know that. Our castles are closer to yours than the Red Keep is, know that as well…and know that the ones who sent me will remember if you betray us now.”

“That’s the last thing I intend to do, ser.”

“Then I believe it’s time you greeted your guest,” Ser Ronnel Arryn replied. “And remember…_I was not here_.”

“Lord Darry.”

The knight they had sent was a young man still, with a strong jaw and blond hair eerily reminiscent of Osmund’s guest. He hadn’t changed from his riding leathers.

“I do not know your name, ser.” Osmund had his family at either arm, and nearly all the men at arms and house staff of the Darrys crowded into the hall.

“Ser Bonifer, of the House Hasty, a knight anointed in the eyes of the Seven Who Are One, sent here in the name of Aegon, Fifth of His Name, of the House Targaryen, King of the Andals, the First Men and the Rhoynar, Lord and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, to summon you, Lord Darry, to answer at King’s Landing for your absence in the war against House Greyjoy.”

_He doesn’t beat around the bush._

The rest of the Ploughman’s Keep seemed frozen; dozens of eyes looked at the rider from the Red Keep, and then back to the Lord of Darry.

_It’s now or never._

“Tell his Grace,” Osmund said slowly, as he rose from his chair at the head of the hall, “that his invitation is refused.”

The room instantly unfroze. Gasps, mutters, even a few shrieks echoed off the ceilings.

“This is a royal command, my lord.” To his credit, Ser Bonifer Hasty didn’t move a muscle. “If you do not present yourself before the Iron Throne, you will be dragged there in chains. Your liege—”

“Lord Tully has not ordered me to do anything of the sort,” Osmund growled.

“You owe your ultimate allegiance to the Iron Throne.” A part of Osmund wanted to strangle the young stormlander knight, but he knew that he would have to let the man ride free—and that Bonifer Hasty was either the stupidest or the bravest man he had ever met. “You are summoned to attend your liege, and are named oathbreaker by the King, and the Lord Hand, if you do not.”

“Liege lords owe things to their vassals, ser.” Osmund’s hands were itching for the grip of his sword. “Protection of their rights as lords. Protection of their Faith. King Aegon has robbed me of my gods-given rights to dispose of House Darry’s land as I see fit, costing us a great deal of grain by placing elderly and feeble smallfolk on our best farms. His grandson is a heretic and a tree-worshipper, because the King failed to raise him in the Faith practiced by our forefathers—a Faith that you, ser, have betrayed by following the King nevertheless. The King has the right to my attendance in his halls, when he fulfils his obligations to me and my family.”

With every word, he had to force down rising panic. There was no turning back, not now, not ever.

“So be it.” Bonifer Hasty dipped his head. “I leave, but will not return, alone. And I will not forget that you insulted my faith, my lord. The Seven command us to show mercy to the downtrodden, and take goodwill wherever we find it in the hearts of men, Andal, Ghiscari, First Man or Valyrian. You have failed to do either.”

As Osmund watched the Hasty knight mount his garron in the courtyard, he could feel one of his hands trembling.

_If the falcons have betrayed me, this is my end._

RODRIK

“’Tis done.”

Arya’s tone had a little bit of glee in it, not that Rodrik could blame her. They had just seen the knight from the Red Keep, who looked like he’d been born with a three-foot stave in his arse, ride away from Castle Darry in clear defeat, something that wouldn’t have happened if Lord Osmund knew the truth about House Tully’s “support”.

“And now for the second one.” Rodrik stretched; he hadn’t spent this long hunched up in the bushes in many years, and the peasant’s clothes that they’d brought from Winterfell were quite itchy. He’d disguised himself as a farmer often while in the Disputed Lands, but the Essosi strongly preferred much lighter working garb. _As would I right now, come to think of it._

“Wait.”

Arya’s voice was almost imperceptible.

A second man was riding out of the Darry gates.

Rodrik reached for his tiny far-eyes. If he hadn’t known better, he could’ve sworn that it was the Iron Throne’s emissary again; both were blond and well-built, in their twenties. He passed it to Arya.

“Quickly, my dear.”

She let herself fix the man’s face in her mind, then drew out a small sheaf of parchment and began to sketch. He would never cease to be amazed by his wife’s memory for faces, something that had saved his life many times before they’d returned from across the Narrow Sea.

“The high road,” Rodrik muttered, as the man kicked his horse into a high trot. “He’s bound for the Bloody Gate.”

“Hmmmm.” Arya had finished sketching. “Well, I’ve his face to paper now. Could be a knight that wanted tae return to his liege lord afore the dragons swoop down.”

“Probably is, but best to know.” Rodrik reached behind him and uncovered the cage he’d carried up; in it sat a raven trained to fly to Riverrun, with Arya’s second scroll attached to its leg. “Watch for anyone leaving the castle.”

He released the raven once Arya indicated it was safe for him to do so, watching it turn and fly northwestward.

“We’re to meet the Norreys to King Harroway’s Town next, no?” she remarked, turning to the cage.

“Indeed, but not yet. It doesn’t do to arrive in daylight.”

“So we wait here?”

“For now.” Arya had turned to close the cage. A grin creeping across his face, Rodrik walked behind her as quietly as he could and plunged his hands down the back of her leggings. She snorted as he squeezed her cheeks. “A little excited, are we?”

“We’ve time.” He pulled her leggings down—even after thirty years and two children, the sight of her ample bum emerging from the rough cloth still made him twitch between the legs—and dropped his own cloak across the ground.

“Good thing we didn’t bring Branda then, eh?”

“She saw this once already, when she wasn’t yet a year old.” Arya unlaced his tunic quickly as he scooped her up, laid her onto the cloak and squeezed her front; she seemed just as eager as him—_it’s been a while, I suppose._

“Let’s hope a bear doesn’t show up.”

“Couldn’t be hairier than you, dear husband.”

“Me heart is wounded.”

“Shall I kiss it and make it feel better?”

“That’s quite a bit lower than my heart...”


	13. Chapter 13

THEOMORE

The moon reflected off the waters of the Red Fork as Theomore strode back and forth, endlessly, across the battlements of Riverrun.

It was done. Brynden had ridden out not three hours before, towards Harranhal, with his orders clear in his mind.

He wouldn’t have done it if the King hadn’t summoned him as well, threatening him with exile to the Wall if he failed to obey, but he knew full well what would happen if he were to appear before the Iron Throne. He’d be lucky if he died quickly. And the man, he suspected, was increasingly vulnerable. Aerys Targaryen’s refusal to convert had made waves in the riverlands, casting increasing suspicion on House Blackwood—_and the wolves. _The White Dragon was a terror in armour, with a weapon in his hand, but he was one man. Walking into the dragons’s den made no sense when the dragon’s claws were wearing down. He only hoped his banners wouldn’t splinter. The Blackwoods were lost to him, the Mallisters as well. He’d sent ravens to Lord Frey to warn him, but was uncertain if the man would be shield enough against the Starks. _Even a short siege at the Twins would get rid of two of my problems at once. _In truth, his strongest bannerman was one of Theomore’s biggest headaches.

_For now._

AERYS

He could scarcely believe they had to do it again so soon.

Aerys would have ridden up the kingsroad with his uncle Duncan if at all possible, and made good on his promise to Osmund Darry, but his parents had firmly refused. The King as well; Aegon V had only one grandson with the Targaryen name.

Duncan was in the courtyard, bidding farewell to the King and Queen, with a small knot of knights around him. To spare the crownlander lords who’d already come when called to push back the Greyjoys, he would be riding with a host of Crackclaw Point men, along with a few levies from the Velaryons and Masseys. Four thousand men, all told, but the Darrys could scarcely raise half that number if pressed.

_It’s really to send a message. _The sack of Castle Darry by a force of this size would leave an impression on their neighbours. And a sack it would be; his grandfather had been clear about that part.

Duncan turned to go, his wife close behind him. Jenny of Oldstones spent most of her time travelling—_as does Duncan, he’s usually off somewhere—_but Aerys had been surprised to see that his aunt would ride into a war zone with her husband. Not that much she did really surprised him. Not anymore.

_“Prince.”_

_He turned to see the riverlander woman behind him. After the endless speeches wishing his uncle well on campaign, the White Dragon had slipped away to the Holdfast’s battlements._

_“Lady Jenny.” His mother had drilled that into him and Rhae well enough; neither of them was ever to call her anything less. She wasn’t close family, but they owed her respect in court._

_“You’ve changed much.”_

_“When I was at Raventree? Or away at Seagard?” She was a common woman, without the courtly airs of highborn ladies, and Aerys easily fell back into the Blackwoods’ rougher speech and blunter manners when around her, much to his mother’s despair._

_“Yes,” she laughed. She still smelled, he realised, overwhelmingly of river water._

_“If I hadn’t , perhaps your plan would have worked.”_

_“It wasn’t mine, to marry you.”_

_“Your woods witch—“_

_“We shouldn’tve brought her here.”_

_He was surprised by the older woman’s admission. “You don’t say.”_

_“And you don’t understand.” Jenny’s eyes had became far, far more intense. “What she saw before, it’s changed now. All changed. All gone.”_

_“What do you mean?” He was growing irritated._

_“She told us, years before, that you had to leave King’s Landing.”_

_Aerys jerked back slightly. “What?”_

_“She saw a dragon eating its own tail, its claws grown long, devouring a wolf and its cub, only to be devoured by a lion. And she saw a dragon with white ravens’ wings, grown great and strong, crush an egg with a drowned raven within.”_

_“I don’t understand.”_

_“The drowned crow has haunted her for years, Aerys, and she never knew from where it would come. She saw that unless you left King’s Landing, the crow would grow great and strong and terrible, a monster from the stories we tell our children.”_

_“I can understand the dragon,” Aerys said cautiously, still unwilling to concede the truth of the woods witch’s vision, “but a drowned crow makes no sense.”_

_“Why?”_

_“There are two houses with crows or ravens on their banners, Blackwood and Morrigen. They both fought _with _me at the Cape. And the other vision”—he picked through what Jenny had said—“wolves? You think that if I hadn’t left here to be raised by the Blackwoods, I would’ve been the downfall of the Starks?”_

_“She saw that one near as often as the drowned crow, and a wolf pack scattered to the winds in the wake. But it will not come to pass. Things changed when you left this place for Raventree Hall, and when she saw the prince that was promised coming from your line with Rhaella—I do not think that runs true anymore, Prince Aerys.”_

_“Has she seen aught I should know of since then?”_

_“Not that she mentions. She sees things whenever her eyes lay her down to sleep, from the past, the rpesent, what is yet to come.”_

_“Did she ever see the dragon with the raven’s wings again?”_

_“She did not say. She saw two dragons fighting—a white one with violet eyes, against a golden with green eyes, and a silent wolf at its side. But neither was the same as before.”_

_That worried him._

_She turned to go._

_“Travel safely.”_

_“I shall try, and hope to see you again.”_

_+++_

Her parting words hung over Aerys’ head as he turned to walk back to the throne room.

_Two fighting dragons…_he honestly couldn’t imagine who that was meant to be. _Maybe my sons? Fighting one another, in a second bloody Dance? And who was the wolf? Some Stark? For that matter, would I have laid the Starks low? How?_

He could sense several of the visiting lords and knights avoiding eye contact with him, which he had first noticed after his defiance of the Archsepton. Rhaella had written to Leyton Hightower since then, he knew; he suspected they would be betrothed shortly, and knew it would be a good match. The Lords of Oldtown had many family members, and much influence, on the internal workings of the Most Devout. He hoped that they could issue some kind of statement pushing back against the Archsepton, and the Darrys’ condemnation of him as a heretic. If not, he suspected he would end up like the river king Theo Teague, remembered as the “Saddle-sore”: most of his reign spent putting down uprisings. It had sapped his grandfather’s strength, he had seen.

Aerys needed his own betrothal. Things had gone so fast since he’d turned his father’s arrangement down. He had thought that Genna Lannister would be his best option. But she’d been away, visiting her mother’s family in Ashemark, when he’d passed by the Rock, and Lord Tytos’ weakness gave him pause. Unless Tywin were to force his father from the Wardenship, the westerlands would hardly be an asset in any future struggle against a reconstructed Faith Militant, or waves of uprisings like those his grandfather had wrestled with. The Tyrells had no daughters his age, nor the Hightowers. A betrothal to a Stark would anger the Tullys.

“He’ll need more than a little luck.”

Tywin Lannister had fallen in beside him again.

“The Darrys are one house.” Aerys found his feet bringing him to the throne room, although he wasn’t certain why.

“If they escape from that castle, they’ll bother the riverlands as long as they can, and the other lords will shelter them, you must know this,” Tywin said impatiently.

“I do. Doesn’t mean I can do anything about it.” He turned to face the other boy as they stood at the entrance to the Throne Room. His grandfather had already climbed atop the Throne, ready to hear more petitions. “Stronger families than this have risen against my house before, Tywin, the Greyjoys included.”

“That may be, but the Greyjoys didn’t follow the Faith.” The Lannister heir slipped away as Aerys took his place at the edge of the hall, turning Tywin’s words over and over in his mind.

MARIUS

There was always trouble leading up to Smith’s Day, he’d discovered. Farmers and cartsmen would come into Gulltown for the festivities, get drunk, end up in the kelp cells, complain to his granduncle and then go home. The last thing Marius needed was a summons to the Albatross Tower, delivered by a man at arms just as the second shift of watchmen headed out the door.

“Fuck. Franklyn, you’re in command until I return.”

The bastard nodded as his commander pulled on his thick riding gloves and strode out the door, swinging himself easily onto his haflinger, a stocky little horse he’d purchased from Lord Hunter’s stables when he’d been a squire there. “Your name?”

“Watkyn.” The man at arms was silent for the rest of the ride. The narrow Gulltown streets were crammed with smallfolk with pushcarts, horses, tools to be fixed, bread just bought from the baker. Marius had to lean over a few times and cuff pickpockets about the ears, fixing them with a glare that sent them skulking back into the alleys. Watkyn never looked left nor right once, the massive spear over his shoulders apparently enough, along with the Grafton sigil on his uniform, to make any street urchin think twice.

The Albatross Tower had been built well after the city had reached its current size, and was set apart from the buildings about it by a small garden, itself ringed by an imposing wall. The houses on Colliers’ Hill—the minor tradesmen and merchants of Gulltown lived there—abutted the garden on the south side, but even Gulltown’s highest neighbourhood only came up to the halfway mark of the Tower. The minor Graftons lived in the smaller keeps scattered around the Tower’s grounds. Handing his horse off to a surly-looking ostler, Marius strode ahead of Watkyn, nodding to a few of the servants that he knew.

His granduncle’s solar was near the top of the tower. Gilwood Grafton often received petitioners in the main dining hall beneath, but this was clearly no occasion for a public discussion. Marius’ eyes widened a little as he entered the solar. The players in his family were all here. His lord granduncle, Gilwood’s grandson and heir Marq, a stocky boy of sixteen years; Marq’s mother Alyssa Corbray and uncle Ser Simeon, the commander of the Grafton house guards, along with his son Leo. And by the window, his grandfather, Ser Baelor Grafton, his granduncle’s right hand and the master of the Gulltown port.

“Quite the gathering,” the watch commander said as he approached the desk.

“So good of you to grace us with your presence,” Ser Simeon said drily.

“I had work, ser, and there are visitors aplenty in our fair city today.” Marius accepted a mug of dark ale from Terrence Shett, his granduncle’s serving man.

“Any septons?”

Alyssa was always direct. Marius turned to face her. “So you heard about my little letter?”

“Something’s wrong,” Gilwood growled. His granduncle’s fist came down _hard _on his desk.

“We think,” his grandfather answered. “Gil, there’s no need—“

“Enough talking in circles.” The Lord of Gulltown turned to meet Marius’ gaze. “I expect you’re fair confused by now, boy. So am I. Your letter to Lord Wydman was shot down.”

“Shot?” Marius’ eyebrows raised.

“Someone put an arrow through the raven’s wing, and stole its scroll,” Alyssa interjected. Gilwood glared at her, which she seemed not to notice. “Unfortunately for them, I mark all our birds with a little bit of chalk.”

“Where was it found?”

“Halfway between. We notified the Eyrie. They told us to pay it no mind, that it might have been an accident with a peasant who panicked.”

“Could’ve been, at that,” Marius replied.

“It wasn’t.” Gilwood was clearly irritated. “The man you were looking for, Gerold—“

“Gerion.”

“Whatever it was. He was sighted again, at the Gates of the Moon.”

“Did the Arryns—“

“Give him a bed for the night.”

The room fell dead silent.

“Did they know?” Marius could hear the desperation in his own voice, but tried not to listen to it. “Had they heard—“

“They had, because I told them.” Marq had the deepest voice of any of the living members of House Grafton, much like his father’s before an arrow from one of the Rat, the Hawk and the Pig’s outlaws had snuffed out his life many years ago. “I was there for a tourney. I saw the man enter the castle. A septon. I heard him called Gerion. I heard him preaching in the village before the gates the next morning.”

“I see.”

“Something has gone wrong,” Gilwood said again. “Marius, it wasn’t a man at arms who met this Gerion. It was Lord Arryn’s brother Ronnel.”

Marius began to shake his head slowly. “No, no, no, _no. Fuck._”

“Yes.” Marq’s one-word reply was as devastating as it was short.

“This—“

“Is treason.” Alyssa’s voice was almost emotionless. “But it gets worse. The Darrys have risen up against the crown. Ser Ronnel had just returned from the riverlands at that tourney. Marq overheard some of the servants talking. It’s all the same language, the same appeal to the Faith. Moreover, our archsepton of Gulltown made the same appeal to the Iron Throne, demanding that the White Dragon convert.”

Marius shook his head slowly. “I cannot believe—very well. What are we to do?”

“Marq will take a ship to King’s Landing shortly, and tell the court what he’s seen,” Gilwood replied. “When this wandering archsepton reappears, you will put him to the question—_gently, _there’s no need to provoke the faithful—and figure out what possessed him to sail for King’s Landing to scold the Prince. Before that, you will make certain that the city is secure. Investigate the walls, make sure the gates can be barred quickly, have piles of rubbish with which to form a barrier if needed.”

“Surely you don’t think—“

“I don’t know what I think anymore, Baelor!” the Lord of Gulltown snapped. “We will make sure Gulltown is secure. That is all.”

_But it won’t be enough, will it…_

DUNCAN TARGARYEN

The wind rustled through the pine trees between them and the God’s Eye as Duncan urged his horse forward, leaving the newly arrived Lord Buckwell and his complaints about taxes behind, and rejoining the head of the little army.

It had been three days’ hard ride from the Red Keep, the weather holding, thank the gods. The Buckwells had joined them that morning, increasing the force to nearly 4,500 men all told. _And one woman._

“The Prince seemed worried to hear my words.”

He was surprised; Jenny had said little about meeting with his nephew the last night before their departure.

“He’s not used to your ways.”

“Even though he grew up in Raventree.” She sighed sweetly, awakening something between his legs. “He’s not what my friend saw, Dunk.”

“No, I shouldn’t think so.” It had astonished Duncan, returning to the Red Keep for the first time since his nephew’s homecoming. The lazy, somewhat bratty, if easily charming boy sent to foster with House Blackwood had been replaced by a towering squire, almost a perfect image of Duncan’s grandfather, equally happy to speak with smallfolk or knights, and shrewd enough to lead an army. He wished that Aerys had gritted his teeth and agreed to accept a knighthood, but it would scarcely have strengthened the boy’s arms.

“He faces darkness ahead, though, I’m certain of that.” She drew closer to him. The shadows were lengthening over the road; they would have to pitch camp shortly enough, he realised. “That she saw. The raven-winged dragon fighting many foes.”

“Such as?”

“She wouldn’t say. She fears she’s already changed too much.”

“Perhaps.” He signalled behind him for the commanders to call a halt. They’d reached the meadow beneath an abandoned ringfort, almost swallowed up by the trees. A smallfolk village was visible across the tilled fields stretching to the right.

“Any tales for me about this one, my love?” he asked softly.

“No.” She shook her head sadly. “I can hear the ghosts of the men who defended it before it fell for the last time, crying out as they were trampled into the ground by riders, but I’ve not been this way so often before.”

“Your Grace?”

Lord Massey had come up beside him, his thick face shiny with sweat.

“Yes, my lord?” He gestured for his men to begin setting up the commander’s tent.

“Have we considered our strategy for the morrow?”

“We likely won’t reach Castle Darry until the day after, Lord Massey,” Duncan replied.

“Even so, Your Grace, it’s quite a strong keep.” He seemed to remember that Massey hadn’t seen much of any kind of fighting since the Fourth Blackfyre Rebellion, when he’d been a very young squire indeed. _Understandable that he’s nervous._

“We’ll give Lord Darry one last chance to accept my father’s commands. After that, siege, I should think, until we can get a battering ram built. We’ll outnumber his garrison two to one, so he may simply surrender, at that.” Lord Massey, still seemed nervous, muttered something about seeing to his supply lines, and rode away as Duncan turned to supervise his tent’s placement. Jenny was already flitting about, most likely trying to find flowers. She always found flowers for their tents, even in the bitter winter, oddly enough.

_Hopefully, I can remember _how _to build a battering ram._

_He didn’t know what price the Darrys would likely pay, or if the lord’s heir might hand the man over to forestall fighting. He was certain he’d get no support from the neighbouring houses, most of whom had left Seagard soured by the death of Hoster Tully. It was his understanding that the boy’s brother Brynden was to marry Minisa Whent shortly, and that his poor uncle Benjen would almost certainly have to attend the ceremony._

_The Blackwoods will pay a price for standing with us, I fear. Mayhap the Mallisters as well._

“Your Grace?”

He turned to face Lord Brune’s son, who’d already strung his bow.

“Shall we hunt? These woods seem—“

An arrow sprouted from his neck.

Whirling around, Duncan heard screams as men were shot down.

“_Cover! COVER!”_he roared, pushing Jenny behind him.

_“SPEARS AND—-_arrrrghhh…”

Lord Buckwell, not yet off his horse, had called for his men, only to be knocked into the mud by another arrow. Duncan’s men rallied, though, as the Prince of Dragonflies drew his sword, grabbing their shields to form a wall facing the woods.

_“Archers!” _The Crackclaw and Massey bowmen who’d joined them ran forth, nocking their bows and crouching behind the shield wall. Duncan pulled himself back onto his horse, shouting at Jenny to run, hide, anything.

That was when the horsemen came.

He’d never seen anything like it, not even when he’d put down the last remnants of the Rat, the Hawk and the Pig’s outlaws in the northern Reach. At the blast of a horn from somewhere deep in the forest, a line of knights just _materialised_ from behind the thickest of the pine trees, mounted on stout little garrons for the most part. Spurring their horses forward, they rode down the still-gathering edge of the shield wall up the road. Seeing the knights from their own party behind him, Duncan roared for them to charge, only for another volley of arrows to cut down their horses—this time coming from the fields behind them. Drawing his sword, he turned to see a second line of knights charging through the late summer oats, picking up speed—and more archers, positioned in the ruins of the ringfort.

It was over. They might have outnumbered their attackers at the beginning, but they were milling about, easy targets for the bowmen and the knights. Duncan spurred his destrier forward, drawing his sword, a war cry on his lips, only for a lance to take him through the chest.

The last thing the Prince of Dragonflies saw in this life was the banners raised by the knights as they rode him down.

Three black bats on gold, and a silver trout on red and blue.


	14. Chapter 14

BRANDA

The early morning fog nearly erased the Trident beneath her, making it difficult for Branda to keep her balance. They’d camped here overnight, bringing back her earliest memories from Essos, when her father had still been a sellsword in the Qohori gentry’s service. There, too, the woods had been thick enough to mask hundreds of men.

For there were nearly two hundred of them, camped in the wooded hills just eastwards of the Ruby Ford, overlooking the Trident. Norreys for the most part, but some Wulls and Harclays as well.

Branda knew how the next few days would likely play out, for they’d gone over it dozens of times at Winterfell. The Tullys would almost certainly cave in the face of what they imagined to be the Iron Throne’s pressure, as the Darrys’ imminent fall would remind them that the dragon still had claws. Lord Tully would ride for King’s Landing—_or Darry—_with all haste, possibly even joining in the siege of the Ploughman’s Keep along the way. Her mother had made sure to suggest that that would be appreciated. Not that he’d ever get the chance; Lord Theomore would be ambushed by the Norreys at the Ruby Ford, before they vanished into the Mountains of the Moon, and his son and heir, Brynden, would meet the same fate along the Red Fork, where the rest of the mountain clansmen awaited, posing as outlaws in the under patrolled lands along the border with the westerlands. After that, home, and the stinking Trident be damned. Branda expected that House Mallister would be awarded the Lord Paramountship, but frankly cared little.

“You’re up early.”

She turned to see her father striding towards her, his whetstone in his left hand.

“And you.” She watched as he settled onto a rock, drew his ugly, jagged sword, and began to sharpen it.

“Ready for blood, I suppose, though it’ll be a while.”

“Have we enough men?”

“No,” he said flatly. “Not even close, but enough to kill that _bhar-ghashi _trout, and make the Tullys look like fools.”

“I haven’t heard Ghiscari in some time.”

“Didn’t need to use it.” He glanced towards the river again; the fog was beginning to burn off. “Another few days, I’d say.”

“He’ll need more time than that to call his—“

_Clang._

_Clang._

_Clang._

Rodrik started, and almost cut his hand with the sword. Bells were beginning to ring in the village by the Ford, just barely visible from where they stood.

“What in the Seven Hells—“

“I’ll send a scout.” Rodrik was about to do it, too, when they heard a horse’s hooves. Her mother was riding towards them through the brush around the camp, astride her garron.

“Arya, where were—“

“Village. Needed pickled arrowroot for one o’ the Harclay lads, his hand’s an infected cut across the fingers.” She swung herself off the garron. “Rodrik—the Prince of Dragonflies is dead. The Tullys, Whents and Brackens ambushed him by the God’s Eye.”

The air fell silent for a moment. Rodrik was perfectly still.

“You canna be serious.” The horror in Branda’s voice was impossible to miss.

“I wish. But I’m no’ joking. They’ve called their banners aginst the dragons.”

“Then they won’t be comin’ this way.” Rodrik nodded firmly. “So we’ve travelling to do.”

“Rod, we can’t make it to the Red Fork now, it’ll be crawling with—“

“True. We can’t, so we won’t. Not that way, anyway. The Mallisters won’t answer his call. We’ll slip back up to the Green Fork, and then show up under Stark banners, asking to join them and help put down the Tullys in the name o’ the King.”

“Tough, but possible.” Branda sighed. “We need to roust the men, then. And quickly.”

Her head was spinning as she walked through the camp, giving orders as quietly as she could. This meant war. She was uncertain how many of the riverlords would really follow Theomore Tully into a full-fledged conflict with the Iron Throne. Many Westerosi lords had previously risen against Aegon VI in the hope of extracting concessions on his program of reform and rights for smallfolk; they might now be hoping that similar offers would be made to draw them away from the trout. _But how many of the King’s banner men would follow him to put them down? _She had heard of grumblings in the stormlands and Vale, the west too, over the King’s actions. That might have changed now, with the fall of House Greyjoy, but it was too early to tell. _And he’s grown old. The lords of Westeros wouldn’t push Aegon VI all _that _far, because they remember him putting down two invasions by the Golden Company, as prince and king. But the father who led the first war is dead, as are two of the sons who rode out with him in the second._

Then her head snapped up.

Edwyle.

When he heard that the Tullys had lost royal favour…

_No. No, no, no, he can’t, he mustn’t! _The riverlords would unite around the Tullys in a heartbeat if threatened with a horde of savage Northmen. She turned and ran for the ravens cage, only to find her mother letting one go.

“You figured it out as well,” Arya said quietly, watching the bird wing its way northward.

“Will he listen?”

”No way to know.”

AERYS

The Throne Room was dead silent.

Aerys and Jaehaerys Targaryen stood at the foot of the Iron Throne. The father was dressed in a plain red-on-black tunic, a sword at his side for the first time in years. The son was far more intimidating. Aerys had entered in the black armour of King Maekar I, which had been stacked outside his door that morning, apparently at his grandfather’s orders. He could see why instantly; despite its age, his great-grandfather’s suit of black plate was light and strong. Maekar, of course, had died in the same steel under the walls of Starpike, but Aerys scarcely cared about that now; he doubted any helmet shy of Valyrian steel could stop a boulder dropped from that height. His mace was drawn, and held across his chest.

Despite the early hour, nearly everyone in the Red Keep had crammed into the room. Aerys was the only one of his family there without red eyes, even his father. They hadn’t seen his grandparents since late last night, when Aegon VI had crumpled the missive fromthe new Lord Buckwell in his fist and ordered all but his wife to leave the room.

Until now.

The door was flung open and the royal couple strode in. Aerys almost jumped back. Aegon’s face was a mask of fury, Betha Blackwood’s was inscrutable. She took her position alongside her daughter and granddaughter as her husband climbed halfway up the Throne, then turned.

“Treachery. Deceit. Murder.”

He spat the three words, which echoed off the ceiling.

“These, my lords and ladies, are what killed my son, and many of your sons, brothers and fathers. These are why we are gathered here at this hour. House Tully has betrayed the Iron Throne’s trust.”

Not a word arose from the crowd.

“I will not waste your time, nor mine. For their treasons, Houses Tully, Whent and Darry are immediately attainted, their lands, rights and incomes forfeit to the Crown until further notice or award. The lands, rights and incomes of House Bracken, who fought against my father and uncle at the Redgrass Field, are forfeited to House Blackwood, who are named Lords Paramount of the Trident.”

_The die is cast, then; _there was no way that the Brackens would surrender under these circumstances.

Aegon turned to the crowd. “Tywin Lannister. Step forward.”

The blond knight shouldered his way through the gathering of men, and approached the Throne. “Your Grace.”

“Ser Tywin, your House is commanded to raise levies to besiege House Tully at Riverrun, and the Brackens at Stone Hedge, and forbidden to sack, pillage or otherwise harm the lands of riverlords not following the trouts in their treason. Houses that already raised levies to fight the Greyjoys Is this understood?”

“Clearly, Your Grace.”

_Damn and blast. _Aerys sighed under his breath. He could understand why his grandfather was doing this; the Tullys and Brackens were shielded from King’s Landing by lords who would balk at allowing a royal host to cross their territories, especially after Aerys’ decision in favour of the Starks at Seagard. The lions could be at Riverrun within two sennights. And yet, sending a western army rolling down from the hills would push many river lords to rally behind Theomore Tully against a host of invaders.

“Meanwhile, we will finish the task that my son was unable to complete. The Crown commands all crownlands, stormmlands, Reach and Vale houses that have not yet sent levies to royal service, since the beginning of Eldred Greyjoy’s uprising, to do so immediately, in the King’s name. The North is exempted for the time being. That is all.”

This was going to be bloody. The stags had sent less than a sixth of their strength to the Cape, the falcons even fewer.

“Your Grace!” The call came from Lord Hayford.

“Yes.”

“Why don’t the Starks have to raise their banners?”

“The northern Houses that did not fight the Greyjoys are too far away to make it to the Trident in time,” his grandfather replied, “and are needed to reinforce the defences against wildlings.”

Hayford nodded briefly, although Aerys could see discontent in his eyes. _Sorry he had to lie to you, my lord. _At Prince Jaehaerys’ urging, the king had decided that the Starks’ presence would further inflame riverlords who thought that Aerys was a heretic, pushing them into Riverrun’s camp. The Lannisters’ arrival would already have that effect, and the lions could field far more men than the wolves.

“We will depart within a sennight, once the first levies of the stormlands arrive.”

_We? _Aerys looked to the side. His father was clearly taken aback.

“Father, do you mean to command yourself?”

“Indeed.” Aegon drew himself up to his full height. “Prince Jaehaerys, you will rule in my stead until such time as I return from the riverlands. Your son will accompany me, and we will remind the riverlands of the dragon’s power.”

Aerys smacked the haft of his mace into his armoured palm a few times, a clear gesture. He had known he’d be going already, but had thought that he would be under Lord Appleton’s command. The Hand was looking rather unhappy, come to think of it. _Time to keep my promise to Lord Darry._

As the King gestured that the session was over, Tywin made his way over to Aerys.

“So this is it for now, your Grace. Until we meet at Riverrun.”

“Until then.” They clasped arms briefly. Aerys suspected that he’d never hear the last of it if the lions ended up sacking the trouts’ lair before he and the King reached the Red Fork. Not from Tywin, of course, but…well, it would be for the best if the man he was contemplating for his own Hand didn’t appear much, much stronger than he was.

“Have you reached a decision with regard to my sister?”

Aerys’ eyebrows went up. “I didn’t mention that to you, ser.”

“You asked a good deal about her at the Rock.”

The White Dragon sighed. “We shall see. It may be affected by how things go.” _Meaning, I cannot have a lord as weak as your father for my goodfather._

Tywin seemed to understand what was left unspoken. “I am sure it will. I must away. Ride safely.”

MARIUS

The city had gone into a frenzy within hours of the first ravens from the riverlands, and then King’s Landing.

His granduncle had ordered an immediate call-up for the able-bodied men who’d trained in the Gulltown militia, perhaps a third of the men between eighteen and forty-five years of age, and the preparation of the fifty ships kept in the harbour,

“Do we need this many?” Ser Simeon had asked uneasily when Gilwood Grafton had called them into his solar.

“This and more,” the old man growled. “What’s about to happen, I don’t know.

“The Arryns haven’t even sent out the word yet.”

“I doubt they’ll march. But we, we may have to.” The Lord of Gulltown had sighed heavily. “This is a royal command, yes, but I have my suspicions as to whether the Eyrie will jump to it. They seem to be trying to weaken Prince Aerys, I doubt they’d march under him.”

“The King will be furious,” Marq had interjected. “Grandfather, the Tullys killed a _prince._”

“And he needs all his strength against them at the moment. Not a good time to be ordering the Vale around, is it?” Marius had replied. “Are we to send the men you’ve called up to the King’s side?”

“It depends on what Maidenpool does.” Gilwood’s tone, Marius could remember, had grown contemptuous at the mention of their rival port at the mouth of the Trident. “If the salmon and the trout must swim together, we’ve the seapower to overwhelm them and sack the port. If not, we can pass by them up the river and be into Darry lands in days.”

_You’d love them to swim together, now wouldn’t you, my lord? _The Mootons had a bare handful of longships and carracks in their harbour, not enough to repel the Vale’s strength at sea, which the Graftons rarely got to test. They were responsible for keeping Narrow Sea corsairs out of Westerosi waters, but that was hardly enough to keep a fleet’s edge sharp.

But at the moment, things were quiet in the guards’ headquarters. Marius was exempt from fighting in the field, as were most of his men; it was hardly as though Gulltown itself could come under siege, he reflected, and the cost of full-on riots in the event of price increases was too high for the Graftons to risk.

He was in his chamber, speaking with one of his rats about a robbery at the docks, when he heard a shout coming from the atrium.

“Un_hand _me, ser! You disgrace the Seven themselves with this—“

“Shut it.” Pate’s voice.

Telling the rat—_isnt his name Wallace? No, that’s the butcher from Gull Tower—_to wait for him, Marius strode out into the atrium. Pate had a man’s collar in a firm grip. A thin man, in what appeared to be septon’s garb. The few smallfolk waiting to speak with Franklyn, who was manning the serjeant’s desk, looked confused, and maybe a little angry.

_Dangerous thing to take a septon by the collar, Pate._

“Got him, ser,” the dark-eyed Watchman announced. “Snuck into the city, he did.”

“Very well. That’s the last time you’ll kill a septon and steal his clothing…Ronnel.” Marius had realised instantly who _him _had to mean, and also that it would look odd if they arrested a second septon within a moon’s turn. Jon had been caught with another girl not yet flowered, at which point Marius had thoroughly lost his patience, throwing the man into the kelp cells for a sennight before his granduncle had put the man aboard a carrack bound for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, to take the black.

_Also, people know the name Gerion. Not sure why I thought of Ronnel, though._

“The Father above will judge you for your lies, my son,” the septon promised.

“And you for murder, I don’t doubt. Haul him off, Pate.” Marius signalled for Franklyn to keep the queue of smallfolk moving, and followed his left-hand man (as Pate couldn’t write, he could only ever dream of being the right) down towards the kelp cells, and then off to the right.

The room they entered, meant for questioning, was an unpleasant one; Marius was certain that the smell of blood never fully faded here. The septon gulped as he looked at the fireplace, and the pokers in front of it.

“Haven’t used this in a while,” the commander remarked, perching on top of the rack. “Not worth it when it’s bread being stolen, and a man will confess to murder to get you to stop using this.” He actually didn’t know what the instrument he tapped was meant to do, but could hear the man whimper a little. “But treason, that’s a high offence indeed, Gerion.”

“My faith is stronger than your instruments, my son.”

“Don’t call me that if you don’t mean it, and maybe it is. But we, Gerion, are not going to find out.”

“We—what?”

“You’re just in here for a little chat.” Marius stretched; he’d been sitting ever since baton practice that morning. “See, the kelp cells tend to fill right up around festival time, and there’re a lot of ears out there at the moment. When I spoke to your friend, we weren’t full up. But I’d rather not have anyone hearing you explain to me why you’re in Gulltown, why you’re preaching against a prince of the blood, and why—and this is what I _really _want to know, Gerion—why you were hosted by the Arryns at the Gate of the Moon.”

“That’s hardly a crime, is it?” the septon replied, seeming a little bolder. “The Arryns are a devout family, my….ser. It is hardly unusual for such a family to offer a traveling septon or septa their hospitality.”

“Sure, done it ourselves a few times. At the foot of the table, they sit, with whoever among the servants is rather pious. Or in the kitchen. Not at a lord’s table. They don’t meet with the lord’s brother outside in the dead of night.” _That’s how I thought of “Ronnel”; Lord Arryn’s brother._

“You seem to have eyes everywhere, ser.”

“Just where it counts.”

“Now, why would I bother answering any of this?” the septon answered. “You have said, ser, that you won’t use these foul instruments on me.”

“No, but I _will_ tell people you killed a septon. Remember that little display upstairs?” Marius stood up, and approached his captive, still tight in Pate’s grasp. “They don’t know you, Gerion. Oh, some people know of your name, but your features, not so much. So when I tell them that you killed Gerion the septon, and accidentally leave you in with some of the rougher prisoners…well, plenty of them would think killing a wandering septon is the lowest of low crimes. Imagine how they punish those crimes, Gerion, men who don’t know the next time they’ll be able to lie with a woman.” He bent down, so close that his nose was practically touching the septon’s. “What is it that the Faith says about victims of those men, Gerion? That their souls are unclean? Doomed to wander forever?”

“Shett, Shett, I was here to visit Ser Shett.”

“That’s better.” Marius straightened up and smiled. “Ser Shett. Hmmm. He has a septon in his household. Why you?”

“The man your eyes saw me with, he wanted Ser Shett to know it was time for him to show his devotion.”

“How?”

“I don’t know, he said that Ser Shett would know.”

_It must be a signal. _“And why were you there in the first place?”

“I was born in the riverlands, ser, and I wandered through Arryn lands for the first time a year back. They instructed me to warn the faithful about the dangers of the false gods of trees.”

_A year ago? This has been going on for a bloody _year!??

“And to take messages.”

“Not before now, I swear.”

“You spoke to Ronnel Arryn. Always?”

“His brother, Lord Jon, as well.”

“Did he instruct you to spread these rumours?”

“These are not rumours—“

“Did he tell you to say what you said? Himself?”

“He did.”

Marius backed away and sat down. Well. He’d thought, hoped in vain, that it was Ser Ronnel doing all of this on his own. Clearly, it wasn’t, which meant that his liege lord was definitely committing treason against the crown.

“Very well. Pate, hood him and bring him to the docks.”

“What?” The man blanched. “I’ve told you—“

“We’re not going to drown you, Gerion, although I hope you don’t get seasick.” Marius stood up again. “You’re going to King’s Landing.”


	15. Chapter 15

SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF DEEP DEN

The goldroad was falling apart, Tywin realised unhappily.

The royal party had traveled along it earlier, returning from the west. Now, he was making the same journey back to the Rock, back to call up his father’s banners against the treacherous trout. His guards, Lannister house soldiers all, kept a close eye on the woods around them. The Lyddens’ lands were almost mountainous, with long canyons stretching back up from the river bottom along which the road traveled. Occasionally, the party passed over bridges where brooks from the canyons fed into the Badgerclaw.

Tywin was ready.

He’d been ready his whole life, he thought sometimes, ready to seize up the mantle that his father had dropped. He could remember the happier times when his mother still lived, for sure, but the humiliation of seeing the Lannisters humbled loomed far, far larger in the heir to the Rock’s mind.

But now, he was coming home with a royal command to seize control of the westerlands’ forces—Aegon had named him and not the Laughing Lion—which gave him grounds to root and burn out any house that dared defy a royal command. The Reynes and Tarbecks were the greatest and most obvious problem, of course, but he expected trouble from the quarrelling Jasts and Falwells, perhaps the Estrens as well. His mother’s house would remain loyal, as would the Presters and the Crakehalls, but he would have to act quickly to intimidate any stragglers into silence.

It would be months, he knew, before he could march on Riverrun and avenge Prince Aerys’ uncle. The westerlands had to be pacified first, and he doubted that Aegon would scold the lions for arriving a little bit late. Aerys was a sensible man, he thought, but the king was a fool. Giving up lands to elderly smallfolk who couldn’t farm them, antagonising his own lords with other reforms, allowing his children to marry each other—he shuddered a little at this—and deprive the Targaryens of valuable opportunities to bind Great Houses to their side—well, perhaps it was for the best that the man had grown old. Aerys would be different, he knew. Far stronger in the arm than his grandfather, for one, and willing to marry strategically, as was his sister. A match to the Hightowers would be frowned on by the old maesters, fearfully reminding the realm of the dire consequences of the Dance. Tywin knew better. The Lords of Oldtown were the second-richest house west of the Narrow Sea.

And yet, Aerys’ greatest weakness wouldn’t be changing. The boy was determined to keep to the old gods. Tywin personally couldn’t have cared any less, but it was already causing problems before he was even King, or Prince of Dragonstone for that matter. Hopefully, the example that the King (and his loyal Warden of the West) would make of the Darrys, Tullys and Whents would make any pious lord think twice about defying the dragon. All the same, he was still a prospect, Tywin thought, for Genna. The Lannister girl and the White Dragon were a mere few moons apart in age. He hadn’t been proud of what he’d done, ordering a squire to cut Emmett Frey’s stirrups so that the little weasel would lose his balance in the charge at the Cape, but passing up a royal husband…that would have been a shame, a true shame. He doubted Genna would take exception, if—

“Aaarrghh!”

The man riding ahead of Tywin collapsed from his horse.

Before he even drew his sword, the heir to the Rock knew that he had made a mistake travelling through a narrow valley. As the crossbowmen appeared from the trees, all clad in grey, Tywin kicked his horse in the sides, hoping that he could somehow make it to the widening point where the Badgerclaw flowed from Rustwater Tarn, the small body of water by the village beneath Deep Den, that his men could hold off the attackers—

That hope was the last thought that Tytos Lannister’s oldest son would ever have.

BRANDA

Her father was swearing again. Rodrik Stark was a great one for swearing, her mother had always said. A string of words-one phrase, repeated over and over again—came from within his white beard.

_“Bloody fool. Bloody fool. Bloody FOOL….”_

They should have been bound westwards by now, the small Norrey party ready to ambush the Tullys as they rode out to give the King battle.

Instead, they were headed north, because her cousin was an enormous fool.

Edwyle Stark had waited a scant day before calling his banners to go and put down the rebellion in the riverlands. King Aegon hadn’t called for him, hadn’t given any indication that he wanted the North’s full army to trample and slash its way south from the Neck, but they were coming anyway. The raven that the Warden of the North had sent back to the party at the crossroads was clear in its reasoning: the Tullys’ decision to openly rebel meant that the secretive, subtle plan that they had cooked up was no longer needed. Except, as her father had angrily pointed out, that an invading horde of northerners would be a gift to any lord trying to rally his banner men. A generous gift, in fact.

Branda shook her head, and almost hit it on a branch. It had taken them a moon’s turn to reach here, somewhere in the woods that lined the long spit of land between the Blue and Green Forks of the Trident. In her cousin’s defence, his new plan was fairly good; have the small party of mountain men scale the walls of Atranta, the seat of House Vance, in the middle of the night, giving the Starks a clear way down the finger road to the Tullys’ lands on the Red Fork, and bypassing the looming battle between the dragons and the ploughmen at Castle Darry. The finger road was a narrow, muddy little track if ever Branda had seen one, leading from the kingsroad to Castle Lychester, but would have just enough space to give a northern army passage.

But it was many days’ ride away, and until then, they had to keep to the deepest woods. Most of the land between the two Forks was heavily farmed, and avoiding the Vances’ gaze would not be easy.

“Wait.”

Rodrik raised a hand, signalling for the small party to stop.

Branda tilted her head, puzzled.

She smelled the smoke before she saw it, a great, acrid cloud blowing into the trees.

The horses almost panicked, and the mountain clansmen had to work to keep them calm as Rodrik dismounted and slid into the brush. From the chart they had brought, Branda was certain that there was a village in that direction—_Sludgy Pond, wasn’t it?—_and she almost called for her father to stop. There were no clear flames around them, and they could carry on.

Then she realised why he had done what he did. They weren’t in the wolfswood, or any of the other dense forests of the north. There shouldn’t be forest fires in any of the little villages. Her mother had already drawn her own blades.

Branda heard her father coming back, which she should not have. He was usually dead silent in the woods. And he usually wasn’t running.

“Come with me.”

+++

Even the Norreys, hardened mountain clansmen all, cursed under their breath at the sight of Sludgy Pond.

The great wooden sept at the centre of the village had been set aflame, as had the houses scattered around it. The marshy fields that surrounded the pond, most of them planted with wild rice, had turned a rusty colour, and Branda could see bodies floating near the surface. And lying on the ground.

The most horrifying ones, though, were nailed to the doors. Branda’s stomach turned, and she stumbled to the side of the little road, heaving until there was nothing left. The people of Sludgy Pond had been blinded and then eviscerated…

…and weirwood faces had been drawn in their blood on every house.

“There’s sommat wrong,” her mother said softly. “There’s no’ any northmen besides us in these parts.”

“The Blackwoods?” Branda asked, wiping her mouth uneasily.

“Do you think that they would do…_this?_” Rodrik growled. “We’re being played, Bran. Whoever did this wanted the world to think that the Starks of Winterfell were behind it.”

“Who _would _do this?” Arya muttered. “You canna be thinking that the Vances—“

“Maybe the Tullys themselves,” one of the Norreys piped up. The rest of them were trying to take the bodies down from the doors.

“To their own people?”

“They don’t much care for smallfolk, the Tullys,” Branda added, remembering Theomore and Hoster’s contempt for the freedmen and -women of the Iron Islands.

“Enough to butcher them like hogs?” Rodrik answered sceptically. “Well…it doesna matter so much. We can get rid o’ these damn faces, anyway. It’ll look like bandits—“

They heard a scream.

Branda whirled around to see a figure fleeing into the woods. _Looks to be about the height of a child._

“Torghen! Mors! Catch—“

Rodrik’s command came too late. As she watched, the figure vanished into the thick brush.

“Fuck!” Rodrik spat. “So much for that idea.”

“What do you—“

“Atranta’s that way.” Her father drew his sword and began to sharpen it with the whetstone that always hung at his belt. “We’ll be blamed for this for certain.”

“And the Vances will know that we’re here.”

TWO SENNIGHTS LATER

THEOMORE

It had been so bloody obvious.

The Starks had been spotted coming down the Green Fork by his scouts days ago, having apparently crossed the river above the Twins, somewhere in the wilds of the Neck. Good thing, too; he wasn’t sure if Walder Frey would have done his duty and held firm, or joined them in return for a Frey bride for Edwyle’s son or grandson. As it was, he had to worry about the Mallisters, who had refused his call for arms.

The walls of Atranta weren’t the spot he would have picked to give battle; the ground around was too swampy for riverlands knights to ride down their enemies. The castle was surrounded by a small village, which faded into wild rice fields a few horse lengths away to the north, and was buttressed by a pear orchard to the south. The northerners were sure to have more foot soldiers, who could manoeuvre easily through the trees. Or could have, if Lord Vance hadn’t set traps throughout. Further along the little road leading from the Green Fork, on the other hand, were sugar beet fields, and it was here that the Tullys had drawn up most of their troops. The Lord of the Trident had warned the Vances to bring their folk within the Atranta walls; thankfully, the beet season wasn’t yet upon them, so they’d lose no food if the ground was trampled. _Might even get it nice and tilled for them._

_At least they won’t suffer the fate of Sludgy Pond. _He had been enraged by the sacking of the village, as well as reports that had filtered back to him of similar raids when the Starks had passed through Frey land to the north. He had known this might happen, but was still disgusted by the Starks’ hypocrisy. _They raged against the idea that the murder of the Greyjoys by their smallfolk was wrong, proclaiming themselves friends of the foreigners that took over the Iron Islands, and then slaughtered my people the moment they had the chance. Falseborn bastards._

Theomore scratched the back of his neck. He was waiting at the edge of Atranta Town, near the back of his forces, his chief bannermen about him. The riverlands wasn’t the strongest of the Seven Kingdoms, but he had called up the best forces he could: Houses Piper, Vance of Atranta, Grell, Vypren, Blanetree, Shawney, Keath and Smallwood had all heard his call, sending nine thousand men in total, to add to the Tullys’ own strength of two thousand. His most powerful vassals, the Darrys, Mootons and Whents, along with the other Vances, from Wayfarer’s Rest, had been sent eastward to match the King’s host, which had already skirmished with the Darrys along the kingsroad. The Brackens and Lychesters had been sent to pin down the Blackwoods, keeping them from coming to the North’s aid. Without them, the Starks couldn’t have more than fifteen thousand coming towards him, he was certain. _Wolves to the slaughter._

“They’re almost here!”

Norbert Vance had a fearful look about him as his destrier galloped up to Theomore. The boy had just come from the village’s sept, where the Vances were keeping an eye on the road.

“Good.” Theomore let his hand drift to the pommel of his sword. This would be a red afternoon, he was sure of it. Red with damned wolfsblood. He hoped that Branda Stark would be riding with her cousin. He would do to her what his son supposedly tried to do to her bitch sister before he sent her to whatever hell tree-worshippers went after they died, and hack Edwyle Stark’s head off.

Clement Piper turned to him as if to speak, but was cut off by the bellow of a horn.

The northern host had come.

There were many more of them than Theomore had expected, closer to fifteen thousand than twelve. Heavy cavalry at the front, followed by a long train of archers, spearmen and other foot. Some of the banners overhead were familiar to him from the Cape—the Karstark sun, the Glover fist, a spiky green weed that he recognised from the tunic of the mountain savage that had been guarding the Stark sisters—and others were new. A giant, a disgusting-looking skinned corpse on pink, a merman with a trident.

Theomore had thought to parley with the savages, but they evidently didn’t have any intention of doing so. The host kept coming, its foot spreading out into the closest part of the orchard, then onto the beet field. _They’re trying to flank us, I see._

At the Lord of Riverrun’s signal, the spears and shields locked into a wall, and the archers began to ignite their arrows from the pitch fires scattered behind the Tully lines. Theomore had no intention of meeting the savages in a headlong clash, as their numbers would easily carry the day if he were to do that. Not yet. _First we thin them out a little._

The Umbers, who had swung all the way to the right to try and come down on the rivermen from their left, were the first to fall. The Vances had dug long, shallow trenches and concealed them with grass, concealing them from the attackers. The Umbers’ horses lost their footing, holding up the running soldiers behind them long enough for the Tullys to rain flaming arrows and scorpion bolts into their ranks. _One set down._

BRANDA

From her vantage point in the pear tree, Branda winced as she saw the Umbers break and scatter. Lord Karl had been among them, she knew.

The raiding party had easily disabled the clumsy traps set by the river men as they crept up on their enemies from the side. The Tullys had assembled a much larger force than either she or her father had expected, and would stand a decent chance against the Starks. She wondered how many would be left to fight the White and Old Dragons on House Darry’s lands.

_Or patrol against brigands. _The strike on Sludgy Pond hadn’t been the last one, as a trail of devastation had followed her cousin’s army across the riverlands, with smallfolk murdered, septs and septas defiled, and the symbol of the weirwood drawn everywhere. She was certain that the Starks hadn’t been involved—her cousin was hardly a cruel man, and the killings were turning the smallfolk against themn—but was at a loss as to who might have done it.

_No mind. _She turned back to the battle. They were to wait there, she knew, and then ambush the trout from the side once they were fully occupied.

THEOMORE

The body of the Starks’ force had begun to advance now, picking up a gallop towards the shield wall. Theomore signalled for his troops to fire at will, trying to pick off as many cavalrymen as possible. In the centre of the defensive line, the spearmen pulled back, leaving the riverlands cavalry an opening through which to countercharge. As they poured forward, Theodore found his hands shaking.

_Soon._

He signalled for the foot to begin encircling.

BRANDA

Watching the clash of the riders was unbearable. The Starks’ cavalry was outnumbered, and paid the price as the Tullys crashed into them. But not for long, as the charging northern foot came down on the temporarily disoriented southern knights.

“What’s happening there?” her father growled.

Then Branda saw the trap.

THEOMORE

The wolves had swallowed the bait.

As the Starks surged forward, his knights turned to retreat behind their own lines, which swept around from the left and right to catch the wolves in a noose. The infantry planted the butts of their pikes firmly into the ground, creating a spiky wall of shields around the northerners. As the wolves tried to rally—he could see Edwyle Stark, in his dull grey armour and furs, shouting commands—waves of arrows began to fly from behind the shields.

“Ser!”

Turning around, he gritted his teeth as he saw why Norbert Vance was shouting.

_Wolves in the trees._

BRANDA

As soon as the noose had closed, her father had given the signal, and the mountain clansmen had charged.

Branda’s little garron wouldn’t have been enough to take down a destrier, but she was able to trample pikemen as the Starks’ second wave hit the back of the Tully foot. It wasn’t to last, however; before they could get to the back of the lines trapping the Starks’ main force, the riverlands knight turned on them. Branda almost lost her seat as she duelled with a Piper knight, and could see her father fall from his horse as a free rider swung at his head. The men still on foot were ridden down by the knights, but not without inflicting casualties of their own.

_One last chance._

THEOMORE

The wolves’ last gambit had failed, he could see, as the knights were able to swing about to meet them. Looking up, Theodore could see that the barrage of arrows and pike stabs was taking a heavy toll on the trapped Starks.

Then he heard a horn.

BRANDA

She cursed aloud as the last chance appeared.

The white eagle on a purple background flew high and proud over the charging ranks of Mallister knights, coming up the road from behind the trouts—but there were few of them, far too few. As Branda parried a strike from a knight, the eagles crashed into the back of the Tully ranks, pushing forward to the line of pikemen. They were able to break the line of shields before archers and Tully knights pinned them from either side, creating a gap through which the surviving Starks poured, but had been far too few to scatter the rest of the enemy troops. As the wolves fell upon the remaining Tully foot, the battle dissolved into a seething mass of banners and armour and screaming, dying, bloody men.

ULLA

The seasmoke hung over the coast as the _Catshark _glided along, hanging just behind Lhang Qi Xan’s junk, approximately three times the size of the longship.

Ulla had taken the rudder on reavings into the westerlands before, but still felt a pit of nerves in her stomach. She, Joron, Quenta and Dunstan had worked out a plan: let the YiTish and Sothyrosi make landfall first, and then ambush the Braavosi warships that showed up in the fog, hopefully managing to climb up the sides of a few. The ships that Joron had described were sizeable, but rarely carried more than a handful of actual soldiers. She suspected that the plan was to trap the attackers on shore, allowing a detachment of soldiers from one of the fortresses nestled into the North Andaii hills to sweep down and slaughter them. _Good plan, if we hadn’t figured it out._

She had approximately twelve hundred sailors under her command, nine hundred of whom could fight (not counting the ones who would be able to take out the Braavosi with arrows or slingshots). They had crammed the longships leaving Saltcliffe to the gunwales. She hoped to leave several of them behind, and take the Braavosi ships as replacements; they were in far better repair.

As Joron slipped towards the front, axe held high, she heard screams from the shore. _It’s begun. _The town they had been told to strike had a few thousand inhabitants: massive for the Iron Islands, but tiny in this part of Essos. She could see men leaping from the Sothyrosi landing boats into the water, cutlasses and spears held high.

They got ten minutes to sack, rape, kill and pillage before the Braavosi arrived.

Ulla’s one mistake had been thinking that the land troops would arrive second. She heard the galloping of hooves along the shore, followed by the ugly crunches, squelches and shrieking metal of an ambush. The sun was beginning to mount the sky now, and she could see the outlines of the buildings through the haze.

_Wait a moment. _The men cutting down the Sothyrosi and YiTish were on horseback. _Dothraki sellswords?_

Then the navy arrived.

As the raiders turned to flee to their ships, seven enormous ships, which she recognised as Shivering Sea brigantines, appeared out of the fog. Ulla cursed softly. They were enormous, the Titan painted across their mainsails. _I want one, and I very much hope I get one._

They had to wait, letting the first ships pull alongside the junks and the Sothyrosi caravels, and waiting as the Braavosi soldiers on board leapt across to the enemy ships, before Ulla gave the signal. Grappling hooks shot up from the _Catshark, _Quenta’s _Lord Dagon, _and Dunstan’s _Albatross, _among others, latching onto the dromonds from behind as the oarsmen rowed furiously, bringing the longships up alongside. Before the Braavosi could react, reavers began to swarm up the ropes.

Joron remained on the ship, his eyes on the edge of the deck. Ulla heard splashes as bodies—_theirs and not ours, I pray, we’ve lost enough as is—_were hurled over the side. As she watched, Stonetree and Harlaw slingers scrambled up the rigging and began to launch volleys of stones onto the decks of the junks, killing YiTish and Braavosi alike. The dromonds

Seeing that the ironborn had come to their aid, the Sothyrosi and YiTish tried to rally, drawing back to the edge of the beach. Ulla cursed to see the cavalry that had taken them down emerge from the haze. They were a mix of sellswords and Dothraki, the latter screaming an eerie war cry that she had read about as a child. _Thank the Drowned God they fear the sea above all else, or so I’ve been told._

“It’s over.”

Joron’s words snapped her back to the battle at sea. The Braavosi hadn’t expected an attack from the rear, and their brigantines—_great, beautiful brigantines—_had fallen. As the slingers tossed the last bodies over the side, the ironborn crews began to tack the sails. The YiTish and Sothyrosi crews, cut nearly in half by the Braavosi, tried to follow them, but lurched from side to side.

Ulla sighed. _Would’ve been helpful if they could’ve followed us to—_

“Look!”

Normally calm, Joron had a tone of excitement in his voice.

On shore, the attackers, who had finished off the sailors, were turning to face the Andaii Hills. The fog had burned off now…

…enough for Ulla to see the approaching army.

_It was a double trap._

Many of the men streaming down the hills, picking up speed until they had reached a full cavalry charge, were clad in golden armour, most of it badly dented or otherwise in poor repair. Ragged sellswords made up the wings of the charge. _The Golden Company, as I live and breathe._

“We need to push off now!” she shouted. “Don’t let them get close to—“

“Wait.” Joron’s tone was firm.

The battle on land was even shorter than the last one. The Dothraki among the forces hired by the Braavosi turned quickly, and were able to push the wing of the attacking force back, only to be outflanked by the men in the centre, who crushed both them and the other sellswords with ease.

“What are we waiting for?” Ulla turned to him. “The Braavosi could have more ships nearby, we have to get going—“

Joron just pointed to the shore.

As the last of the Braavosi hirelings were pinned down and slaughtered, one of the riders in gold broke away from the main host and spurred his horse towards the waves, a white flag raised high.

“They want to talk.”

THEOMORE

The lines had completely broken.

Theomore had ended up on foot at some point, his horse shot out from under him by a mountain savage. His sword drawn, the Lord of Riverrun hacked his way into the swiftly thinning ranks of the Starks’ men; he had always been an accomplished fighter, and his armour was soon splattered in blood.

_Need to get to high ground. _The Mallisters had stove in the back of the Tully forces, but they had been scattered and weakened in doing so, and arrived far too late to help the trapped Starks. If Theomore could signal his men—

“TROUT!”

_Warrior give me strength._

Edwyle Stark pulled his greatsword from the back of a dying Lolliston foot soldier and advanced towards Theomore, stepping over Umber and Karstark corpses to do so. One of the Tully guards tried to block him, only for the Warden of the North to strike him down with a single, easy swing of his blade.

“Care to finish our little match from Seagard?” Theomore knelt to take a shield from the body of a Piper knight; his own had been shattered while he’d still been on horseback.

“Oh we shall, but the end shan’t be the SAME!” With the last word, Stark nearly took his opponent’s head off with a vicious cut. Theomore barely batted it away, then pressed forward, trying to keep in close enough that the other man couldn’t use his enormous sword.

“You’ll die here, Tully!” Stark was relentless, smashing into Theomore’s armour with his pommel and hilt when he couldn’t draw his arms back for a full swing or stab. “You and your traitor family will vanish into the fucking waters of the Trident!”

“And you?” the river man roared back, narrowly missing Stark’s knee with a stab. “You weren’t told to come, I know that!”

“The King won’t care if we deliver the head of the man who ordered his eldest’s death!”

“IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!” Theomore’s scream had real despair in it. He had ordered Brynden to take the Prince of Dragonflies alive, for a hostage, not to ride him down. The decision, he knew, had sealed his fate and that of his House, if he were to lose.

“Doesn’t matter now.” The other man knocked Theomore’s blade aside. “Your time has come, trout.”

BRANDA

Pulling her sword from a trout’s neck, Branda saw her father’s final fall, as a Grell knight rode him down. Rodrik Stark didn’t go easily, stabbing the man’s horse through the jaw and sending it crashing forward, but it was all for nothing. She screamed until her throat was raw, but was unable to get any closer to him, as a wing of cavalry swept between them.

_This is all wrong! _The Mallisters had been meant to bring more than twice as many men as they had, enough to pin down the trouts at the back and trap them against the Stark lines, she knew that much. As it was, both sides had been pulled into a senseless brawl, all the colours and banners mixing together into a heaving pit. The Tully pikemen that had surrounded them had been picked off, but at the cost of the few Mallister knights that had bothered to show up. _Whoever wins will have to limp back home._

That was when she saw her cousin. The Warden of the North was facing off against Theomore Tully in the shadow of a mountain of bodies from both sides, both of them without any house guards.

_If I can get the trout through the throat with a spear, this’ll be over._

She spurred her horse forwards.

THEOMORE

As Stark pushed him backwards, Theodore felt real fear. Both of them had lost their helmets, and he could see the pure hatred in Stark’s stormy grey eyes. _Wolfsblood indeed._

That moment of thought cost him. Without warning, the Valyrian steel blade knocked his own from his hands. Laughing, Stark drew Ice back. Theomore reached for his belt, finding a knife, but was unable to draw it before the sword plunged into his guts. Something in him propelling him to take one final kill, he let Stark draw closer, and the sword come out the back of his armour, before jabbing the dagger into the northman’s eye, as deep as it could go.

Locked in a deadly embrace, they fell to the mud, and Theomore knew no more.

AERYS

The camp on the Trident had faded to near silence as the evening approached.

Aerys rode past the tents assembled by the Masseys, nodding in greeting to a pair of knights. He had returned from a scouting party towards Castle Darry, but had to retreat when met with a shower of arrows by Miller’s Barrow, one of the villages on the edge of the ploughman’s lands.

They had been stuck here for a few days. The stormlands were slow to gather their troops, and the dragons lacked force enough to fight the Whents to the west and the Darrys to the north at once, so they were holding to line on both fronts. His uncle Ormund, the Lord of Storm’s End, had left his castle with fifteen thousand men a few days past. Once he had arrived, they would be able to strike forward in both directions, laying siege to Darry and then pushing on into Tully lands. He hadn’t wanted the north to ride ourt, but it was for the best.

_Especially since the West will be absent._

Aerys gritted his teeth again. Since Ser Tywin’s murder, the westerlands had descended into near chaos. The Reynes and Tarbecks had accused the Lyddens of the crime, a charge so absurd that his grandfather had almost laughed hearing about it. The Presters, and Jason Lannister, blamed the two houses themselves. The Crakehalls and Estrens thought that the Tullys had been responsible. Either way, Ser Jason had been forced to take command of the Rock, as his brother, Lord Tytos, had fallen into a nearly catatonic state at the death of his firstborn, and was trying to force the westerlords to come to heel, but it could be months before any substantial army marched down from the Golden Tooth to bring the Tullys low.

Approaching his grandfather’s tent, he heard raised voices. Crownlands lords were running towards the tent. Swinging off his horse, he beckoned his kingsguard, Ser Harlon Grandison, to follow him as he made his way inside.

His grandfather was leaning over his table, his face nearly white. Ser Duncan stood immediately beside him, as their banner men crowded about.

“Your Grace—“

Looking far, far older than his years, Aegon VI turned to his grandson, wordlessly extending a raven scroll.

_To Aegon, of the House Targaryen._

_We the undersigned, in light of your family’s rejection of the Seven, in light of your own attempts to subvert the natural order of Westeros, in light of the atrocities committed by Northern forces loyal to you in the riverlands, do renounce our oaths, as you have failed to provide us with that which any loyal vassal may expect._

_To the peoples of Westeros,_

_We proclaim the Kingship of Aemon, First of His Name, of the House Blackfyre, in the name and light of the Seven Who Are One._

_Signed,_

_Jon Arryn and the Lords of the Vale, excepting the treasonous Houses Grafton, Hunter and Corbray_

_Roger Reyne,_

_Walderan Tarbeck,_

_Gerold Lefford,_

_Jon Brax,_

_Elwood Doggett,_

_Theomore Tully and the Lords of the Trident excepting the treasonous Houses Blackwood and Mallister,_

_Leo Dondarrion,_

_Nestor Morrigan,_

_Edric Peake,_

_Eustace Costayne,_

_Arthur Caswell,_

_Mors Yronwood,_

_and Robart Jordayne_

ULLA

Except for Joron, she went alone.

The _Catshark _remained in the surf, her crew looking suspiciously at the Golden Company guards lined up on the sand. Her wheeled chair had grown rusty from the salt air, and Joron was unable to get it going through the sand before one of the Company’s men offered a hand.

The area further up the beach was thoroughly bloodstained, and yet a handful of stewards were setting up a small palanquin by the village’s old well, along with a small table with cheeses, fruits, olives and wine. A tall man in golden armour stood there supervising them. He was flanked by two guards, one of them with a red-apple-on-gold patch on his armour, one with a golden crown painted on the brown patch over his heart. _House Fossoway, and…I don’t know the other one._

“Lady Wynch.”

The table had been set, and her host came forward to greet her. She felt her jaw drop a little. He was a lean man, with a reddish-brown tan and white hair cut short, a crooked nose, and a stunningly handsome face, his jawline prominent under his short beard. A long sword leaned on his chair, with the rippling pattern of Valyrian steel, and a red gem in the grip. She could hear Joron suck in his breath.

“My lord—I fear I do not know your name.”

“Aemon, my lady, of the House Blackfyre. Commander of the Golden Company, and King in Exile of the Seven Kingdoms. We have much to discuss.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will introduce our last new POV character in this chapter; his name/very basic outline is taken from the excellent For Fear Tonight Is All (https://archiveofourown.org/works/2431607), although he does not appear in/have any lines there.

**Chapter 13**

“I hadn’t expected to see ironborn on these shores, you know.”

Aemon had allowed her to eat her fill before striking up a conversation, gesturing for Joron to do the same. Ulla had learned to fear poison after a Sunderly, one of her mother’s family, had been murdered, but suspected that the Blackfyre lord had no reason to want her dead. _The Golden Company can buy ships enough if they wish, more than we’ve taken today. All this effort would be a waste._

“And I hadn’t expected to see the Golden Company in Volantis’ service, my lord.”

The man in the Fossoway colours, whom her host had called Ser Donnel, looked as though he wanted to say something, only for the other guard—_Mudd, wasn’t it? Are there still Mudds?—_ to grip his arm. _Doubtless, he’ll be insisting that I call this man His Grace before long._

“Oh, they would never have us.” Aemon’s smile had a warmth that she’d rarely seen in an adult man; most ironborn preferred to avoid showing any emotion but anger, unless deeply drunk. “The Volantenes prefer smaller sellsword companies, Lady Wynch. We are difficult to dictate to, and the triarchs do love being in control.”

“So who sent you?”

“On paper, Myr.”

“On paper?”

“That is to say, they have no idea that we’re here. But the Braavosi will have access to a copy of the contract between us and the Myrish soon enough, or what appears to be one.” He stretched, and Ulla caught her breath; there were lengthy, ugly white scars running down his forearms. _Those aren’t from swords, are they?_

“You’ve been hired to…to what, create an illusion?”

“Not hired.” Aemon took a small handful of nuts and olives, spitting the pits out before he spoke again. “We sent ourselves.”

“I was not aware that the Company did anything unless paid properly,” Joron said cautiously.

“We generally don’t, Lord Farwynd.” Ulla could see her guard blink. _Hmmmmm._

“I do not believe I had introduced myself, Captain General, and I am no lord, not while my father yet lives.”

“You didn’t, Lord Farwynd, but I have my ways. Rest assured, your father is in good health. The Tullys never quite got time to lay claim to the Lonely Light, you see, before they began to draw up their forces after the wolves killed Hoster Tully.”

“You’ve been in touch with them, I see.”

“Not about that, no, but to what you said earlier, we weren’t paid for the last two times we crossed the Narrow Sea, either.”

“You’re plotting another invasion.”

“Indeed, my lady.”

“Then why are you here?” Ulla said curiously.

“To meet you, of course, and to create a diversion against the Myrish.”

She tipped her head to one side. “How does Myr hinder you?”

“They draw on our resources, and they threaten our allies in Tyrosh.” Aemon rolled up his sleeve, showing a curious scar on his left arm, in the shape of a circle of nine stars. “Lady Wynch, I allied with a number of sellswords some years prior, some pirates as well, and a prince of the Blood from Tyrosh. Last year, we installed him as tyrant.”

“I hadn’t heard of that.”

“You wouldn’t have. My brother would have had us sack the city. We used poison instead.”

“Your brother—“

“Maelys Blackfyre, my twin.” A dark cloud passed over the Blackfyre lord’s face. “I should have liked to have him here, but we’ve both lost brothers, Lady Wynch. ”

_That’s the second time; I never spoke of my family to him._

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. It…it was recent, barely a moon’s turn past. All Blackfyres have made sacrifices to regain what was taken from us, and Maelys…Maelys lost more than most.” He sighed heavily. “What remains of my family is in Tyrosh at the moment, under Alequo’s protection. There’s nobody in Essos that Aegon the Falseborn wants dead more than Daemon Blackfyre’s descendants. Nobody. Not even you.”

“How many Blackfyres are living, then?” she asked softly, leaning towards him.

“Five if you count my mother, who married into the family. My little brother Aegor, my sisters Calla, Serra and Rohanna, my mother. I had a cousin, but he and Maelys…met the same fate, I fear.”

“You have three sisters?” Ulla’s head was spinning a little. The last she had heard, the Black Dragon’s descendants numbered no more than three. _Three sisters could mean three powerful marriage alliances here. Or across the Narrow Sea._

“Each of whom I love dearly, though not in the old Targaryen fashion. But as I’d said before, I can count on support from Tyrosh, and the fleets of House Saan of Lys, the Jolly Fellows, and the Old Mother’s six ships. But what you have here today—that would be a third of all our force at sea, if you keep your longships.”

“You mean to fight the Royal Fleet?”

“No. I mean to fight the Royal Army. Carry the Company overseas, join up with our allies, ride down on King’s Landing.”

“Who are your allies?” Ulla was growing worried. She doubted they would be able to leave without pledging some sort of support to the Blackfyre, but she remembered the fate of the last four Blackfyre Rebellions. _Cant recall what happened to their ships, now that I come to think about it, but sailing into Westerosi waters isnt exactly safe for us at the moment._

“Houses Arryn and Tully, and their vassals.” Ulla nearly spat out her wine.“The Reynes of Castamere. The Peakes, Costaynes, and Yronwoods as well.”

“You have _the entire Vale _behind you?”

“Gulltown is a problem,” her host admitted, “so we shall have to land elsewhere. But apart from the Graftons and Corbrays, the Vale is behind me to a man.”

Her mind was racing. Ulla had studied the Third and Fourth Blackfyre Rebellions, where a number of her mother’s kin had fought. The Golden Company had been pinned down and torn apart while landing in both cases, unable to gather themselves before the Targaryens had broken their strength. They would be unable to do so if the Black Dragons rode through the Bloody Gate—_and the full force of House Arryn is more than twice what rode under the black dragon at Redgrass._

“Very well.” _Let’s play along._ “We have perhaps twenty ships in fighting shape here, all told, and each could carry two hundred if pressed, less than crew they’d need. If the weather holds.”

“In that case, we should have enough to bring the Golden Company, the other two joining us and yourselves across in one voyage. As for the weather…well, I know winter is due shortly, but we’ve had a warm spell in the Narrow Sea this last moon. It need not last all that longer.”

“And in return?”

“Your lands back, and the titles of Lady Reaper of Pyke and Warden of the Iron Islands, of course. For your comrades, I seem to recall that a great many lordships on the Iron Islands have fallen empty—that of the Farwynds on Great Wyk, for instance.”

Ulla went completely still. “You can’t be serious.”

“Why ever not?”

“The Westerosi hate us. Root those thralls out of our islands, and they’ll always remember you for siding with the Iron Islands. Your allies in Houses Reyne and Costayne will think twice if you arrive on ironborn ships.”

“They have far, far worse to fear than you.” Aemon’s voice had lost all its mirth. “No people have ever been treated with as much contempt, and disregard for their land rights, as you and yours. ’Tis Daeron the Falseborn’s hand at work, my lady, undoing the natural order of the Seven Kingdoms. His grandson won’t stop until he has every man, woman and child eating out of his hand, totally dependent on him once he’s made every lordship from Dorne to the Wall direct property of the Iron Throne. He’s started with you, but he won’t be finished!”

His voice had risen slightly towards the end. Ulla looked to her side; Joron hadn’t moved a muscle. _Good. This one is no danger to me today._

“I doubt that the lords and ladies of Westeros care what happens to us, Lord Commander, not after centuries of enduring our presence.”

He nodded, evidently back to his normal self. “So you say, my lady, but remember that not all in the Seven Kingdoms have encountered your folk before. John, the contract.”

The older of the two guards laid a single sheaf of parchment across the table, the ink still drying atop it. _He writes quickly._

“An agreement for you to give transportation and support at sea to Aemon, First Of His Name, King of the First Men, the Andals and the Rhoynar, in their war to reclaim the Iron Throne from the descendants of Daeron the Falseborn, to abolish the institution of thraldom in all its forms on the Iron Islands, and to reave, raid and pillage only in waters not under the command of House Blackfyre, or the city of Tyrosh.” Mudd’s voice was surprisingly high-pitched for a burly man. “In return, you, Ulla of the House Wynch, are acknowledged as Lady Reaper of Pyke, Lady of Iron Holt, Daughter of the Sea Wind, and Lady Paramount and Warden of the Iron Islands.”

“What does support at sea mean to you?” Joron answered quietly.

“Fishing if our provisions run low, and fighting if the Royal Fleet should make an appearance,” Aemon replied, his eyes never leaving Ulla’s. “What say you, Lady Wynch?”

“A good offer.” Ulla hesitated for one agonisingly long moment. She knew that the ironborn had sworn to follow her every decision here, but she couldn’t help but remember reading over descriptions of the Iron Throne’s strength at sea.

Then she looked over Aemon’s shoulder at his guard, Donnel Fossoway. A son of a dead house. A man who had lived his life on the Essosi roads, with no keep, no wife, no children. When he died, he would be dead, gone and utterly forgotten.

_If I don’t do this, we’ll all end up like him._

She pulled the parchment towards her, signed it with a quill extended by Mudd, and then bowed her head. “I, Ulla the Wynch, swear by salt and stone and sea to follow you, Aemon the Blackfyre, in storm or fair weather or maddening calm, in the sight of He Who Dwells Beneath The Waves, for myself and my children to follow, and my fishers and reavers, and my thralls and animals.”

“And I swear that you will always have a place at my table, and meat and mead from my hearth, and that I will never ask you to do anything that besmirches or blackens your name or honour. I can’t say I’ve ever heard the full ironborn oath before.”

“You wouldn’t have.” Ulla raised her head again. “The Greyjoys took the greenlander oath to Aegon the Dragon.”

“Why is that?”

“They may not have meant to keep it, Your Grace.”

_But I must keep this one, or spend the rest of my life wandering the endless sea like the ghost of a reaver buried far from the water, _she thought.

“I can’t say I’m surprised. Well, I believe that concludes the essentials. The Braavosi will not reach here for a few days, if at all.” Aemon stood up, the midmorning sun glinting off his armour. “The remaining ships of which I spoke, Lady Wynch, will be here well before that, and I am not a man that wastes time. Once they arrive, we sail for Castle Upcliff, in the Vale of Arryn. I trust you have charts of the eastern coast?”

“Always,” Joron said proudly.

“From Erik Farwynd’s grandson, I would expect no less. Then we will begin loading ourselves and our supplies onto your ships, unless you object. Lady Wynch, I should prefer to be on your flagship, we have things still to discuss.”

As they clambered into the _Catshark _a few moments later, Joron’s expression was still unsettled.

“Be wary of that one.”

“Why?”

“Ulla, the things he described…not even most ironborn remember that my grandfather was a skilled chartmaker, I wasn’t wearing any Farwynd sigils on my tunic or armour, and… I keep an eye on the Lonely Light, you know, with…things I left there. Gulls, mostly. My family hasn’t sent ravens or received ships since the fall of the Greyjoys. I don’t know how Aemon Blackfyre—His Grace, I suppose—could have known what he was talking about. At all.”

“He must have spies.”

“How? Where? On Pyke, perhaps, but the Lonely Light? For all that I have, by the way, I had no idea that the Farwynd lights had gone out on Great Wyk, none at all.” Joron shook his head as he helped her into her seat by the tiller.

“Dragon dreams,” Ulla murmured to herself.

“Pardon?”

“Joron, I’ve read about the Targaryens before, when..when I was young. Some of them could see things when they dreamed, that hadn’t come to pass yet, or that happened elsewhere. They said that Daemon Blackfyre the Second was the same, and King Aegon’s brother Daeron.”

“Try not to refer to him as the King.” Joron winced a little. “But..that is interesting. There are Farwynds like that, too.” The ship had pushed off by now, and they made way towards the cluster of longships hanging off shore. _Hopefully the others don’t turn down the offer, although I’d be buggered if they did. _“Or there were, anyway, back before there were Andals in Westeros, in the Age of Heroes.”

“One other thing.”

“Aye?”

“What happened to his twin? It doesn’t sound like he died in battle.”

“That worries me.” Joron fell silent as they backed off from shore, heading towards the other longships to confer with the captains. “Ulla…something _changed _just after we left the Iron Islands. I was losing contact with the gulls on the Lonely Light by the time we were off the Arbour, but then I awoke one morning and I could hear them again. And the weather….”

“What of it?”

“The last ship we lost was to a tropical storm. Grandfather used to talk about the seas in the south, and…well, it shouldn’t be the season for them, not this close to winter. The Captain General was right about this being a warm moon.”

“What are you getting at?”

“I…you see things when you read through history, you know. About Essosi blood rituals, and the seasons growing colder when Aegon III was on the Iron Throne. And about the last selkies losing much of their power in those same years.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It may be my foolishness, but ask yourself this. What changed in those years?”

While Ulla was still turning the thought over in her mind, Joron returned to the midship benches.

What he meant finally came to her late that night, after the long, hot debate between the captains, after the officers of the Golden Company had boarded _Lord Dagon’s Knife, _the renamed brig that Ulla had claimed for her own. Lying in her bed in the captain’s quarters, she sat bolt upright as the realisation hit her.

_Surely not._

Then she looked in the direction of Aemon’s cabin, remembered the long scars down his arms…and felt more than a little fear.

MARIUS

In fairness to the Shetts, they had put up quite the fight.

Marius had snuck up to the Gullwing Hall in the dead of night, the bulk of the watch, as well as Grafton house guards, close on his heels. His granduncle’s treacherous banner men had failed to conceal the movement of troops around the city as well as they needed to, and the commander’s rats had noticed them all.

Breaking down the door, they’d encountered surprising resistance. The Shett house guards fought viciously, and might have killed a number of watchmen if Marius hadn’t thought to bring the Graftons’ six Lorathi crossbowmen, who simply shot their way through the men at arms who charged into the main hall, many of them half asleep. Ser Shett had drawn his blade and roared for Marius to die “like a man”, before Pate had nailed his torso to the wall with a well-thrown spear.

Climbing a narrow wooden staircase to the upper floor of the hall, Marius leaned out a window overlooking the street. He’d seen the banner as they’d crept through the street, trying not to lose the element of surprise, and scarcely believed it. _But it all makes sense now. After a fashion. _He’d been unable to understand what would bring the Tullys and the Arryns together, why they thought they could win a pitched battle against the Iron Throne, Faith or no Faith.

_It seems they’ll have help._

He cut the black dragon and gull wing banners loose with his saxe knife, letting them crumple into the street, before tying the Graftons’ burning tower banner to the flagpole and letting it drop over the front of the Hall. Had he known what he’d encounter, he would have brought a Targaryen flag with him, he reflected.

“It’s as we feared.”

Lord Gilwood was bent over his table, looking at the scroll again and again. Ser Baelor had turned the colour of gone milk.

“Will the Golden Company try to make landfall here?” Marq asked softly.

“Doubtful.” The others jumped as Marius strode into the room, blood still staining his armour. “Too close to King’s Landing. They can land amongst the Fingers easily enough.”

“It’s done?” Gilwood growled.

“Aye. The Shett boy and his mother are in your dungeons. There were no other survivors from the family.”

“I’ve ordered their properties seized on behalf of the crown,” the Lord of Gulltown replied. “Marius, we must prepare for a siege.”

“I doubt they’ll be that interested in a long affair here,” Alyssa interjected.

“They’ll be very interested!” the old man hissed. “This is one of the great ports in the Seven Kingdoms, and the only one in the Vale! If the black dragons can’t hold it, they’ll have no cities to their name, none at all!”

“We could call for aid,” Ser Baelor said hesitantly.

“We shall,” Gilwood answered firmly, regaining his composure, “but I doubt there’ll be much coming.”

“The King won’t want to give up a toehold in the Vale,” Marius replied. “If the Iron Throne could land soldiers here, they wouldn’t have to go through the Bloody Gate to put down the Arryns.”

“They have to beat the Tullys first, and the Reynes.” Gilwood scrubbed his face. “The Turnfeather Falcon can’t sack King’s Landing, but the trout—“

“—has lost its scales.” Marius shook his head. “I thought you’d heard.”

“What?”

“The Starks and Tullys joined battle at Atranta, and both armies were scattered, their lords lost,” Alyssa murmured. “The trout’s lost half its strength, my lord.”

“Very well.” Gilwood sighed. “We must prepare for a siege nonetheless, but I shall plead for aid. The Royal Fleet at least, or the Baratheons, or even the damned Dornish for all I care, but _somebody._”

As the little meeting broke up, Marius looked out onto the iron grey waters of the Bay of Crabs. Somewhere across there, the Blackfyres were on their way.

_And we’re not nearly ready for them._

SEVEN DAYS LATER

JOANNA LANNISTER

She had told herself she wouldn’t weep, but it was far from easy.

Six men carried Tywin’s coffin into the Hall of Heroes. Kevan and Tygett’s tear-streaked faces were almost hidden in their shoulders. Her father was clearly ill at ease too. Tywin’s only other living uncle, Ser Ellard Marbrand, had drank late into last night, and was still showing the effects.

Her grandfather had come too. Cedric Prester had always appeared quiet, calm, collected to his banner men, neighbours, grandchildren and liege lord. That was all gone, replaced by a cold fury that Joanna had never seen before. He had already ordered the Kennings and Yarwycks, both of them sworn to Feastfires, to prepare to march on Castamere.

The seventh man was distinguished by his absence. Tytos Lannister had collapsed when told of his son’s death, his heart seizing up on him, and was still under the care of the Rock’s maester. His mistress had attempted to sit with him, only for Kevan to coldly remind her that she had been his father’s guest, that her welcome was worn out, and that she would do well to return the jewels of his mother’s that had gone missing. She had turned and fled immediately.

_Kevan…_the new heir to the Rock had nearly collapsed himself, she remembered. They had all been there, her uncle having summoned the family upon hearing of Tywin’s return. Had Jason Lannister not been there to take command of the household, there might well have been a declaration of war against the Lyddens. As it was, the Deep Den, where her grandmother had grown up, was preparing for war with the Doggetts and Braxes, as their neighbours had raised the black dragon.

It was unclear how many men would flock to the lions’ banner: the Marbrands, Baneforts, Plumms and Stackspears had come immediately, as had the Presters and Ser Tarrence Clegane, a grim, towering man in heavy steel plate, with an axe slung across his back. But the Paynes, Crakehalls, Westerlings and Serretts—the most powerful houses sworn to the Rock—were on the edge. The Falwells, Estrens and Brooms had joined Lords Tarbeck and Reyne in raising the black dragon over their castles, but lacked the strength to stand if the red lions fell. The Leffords were a serious problem; the Golden Tooth contained much of the West’s gold reserves, and could easily let a Tully or Arryn army pass through to lend support to the Reynes.

Despite her vow, Joanna had to blink back tears as the coffin was slid into the cold, dark opening, and a great headstone lifted into place. Tywin, the boy she had loved since they were little children, was gone. She wished she could crawl after him, tell them to seal her up behind the great grey rock, and might have tried if she hadn’t seen how he died, all the arrow wounds. Her grief had largely been driven out, replaced by cold anger much like her grandfather’s.

“Tonight, we mourn my brother.”

The dinner in the family’s chambers in the Rock was sombre, more so because it could not be private. Kevan’s words were heard by three of his most powerful bannermen: Tyrek Lannister of Lannisport, Cedric Prester, and Ser Ellard, silent in his grief for his nephew. His father, Alyn, had been forced to remain at Ashemark, as the Reynes were nearly strong enough to overrun his lands.

Kevan had taken his father’s place at the head of the table, Joanna keeping close beside him._ I hope he finds someone who can still laugh and smile to be his lady, though. I am beyond all that._

“Tomorrow, we begin to fight.” Her cousin’s voice was a little shaky, but still resolute for a boy of five and ten. “My brother’s murderers are at large, my lords. Moreover, I must inform you that…that the Pretender, Aemon Blackfyre, has granted House Lannister’s rights, titles and incomes to House Reyne.”

Snarls of anger arose from the three men. Lord Tyrek’s greying whiskers barely covering a reddening face.

“And my bannermen, apart from you, have failed to step forth.” Kevan took a deep breath. “My lords…my father was a good man, a kind man, but this cannot go on. We cannot appease the Reynes, cannot negotiate with them.”

_He remembered his lines. Good._

“So, hear me now.” The shakiness was gone from Kevan’s voice. On his other side, Tygett leaned forward. “For those houses that stand with the Lannisters, there will be rewards. There are three living Lannister brothers, and my father did not have time to arrange betrothals for any of us. Therefore, each of us will be betrothed—and I will be wed shortly, as I am nearly of age—to a daughter, or son, from Houses that agree to stand with us now. I have offered my hand to Merya Crakehall in a letter to her father, and Tygett and Gerion’s to the Paynes and Baneforts.”

“And what of your cousin?” Lord Tyrek rumbled. “Tywin’s betrothed?”

_Oh, thank you, ser, for reopening that wound._

“I would ask that my daughter be allowed some time to mourn, my lord,” Father said testily.

“And not the boy’s brothers?” the Lord of Lannisport answered quizzically. “I’ll understand if you don’t want her wed to some minor bannerman, Ser Jason, but perhaps the Reach or Stormlands? The Hightowers or Tyrells might be of help, you know.“

“There will be no need.” Joanna hadn’t spoken in hours, and her voice was unusually cracked and rough. “My grandmother has been considering some ideas, my Lord Tyrek.”

“And I daresay that the Hightowers would consider either of your daughters, as well, my lord,” Gerion piped up. The youngest of the Lannister brothers was often overlooked, but Joanna found him surprisingly quick-witted for his age. “Or have a maiden for Marek’s hand. Any letters you write to Oldtown would be well received.”

_Flattery, but true. _The prospect of a connection to the House that oversaw Westeros’ second port would surely entice the Hightowers—and Lord Tyrek as well, if his expression were any indication.

“We must immediately crush the Tarbecks, and then the Reynes. Their followers will then be given one final opportunity to bend the knee and be reaccepted into the King’s peace.” Kevan’s voice silenced the whispers that had begun between her grandfather and Lord Marbrand. “Lord Tyrek, I ask that you take the bulk of your forces along with mine own and myself, southward. Ser Clegane, you will accompany us to Tarbeck Hall. Lords Prester, Marbrand and Sarsfield are directed to lay siege to Castamere.”

_The Lyddens will have to prepare for a long siege, then. And the Sarsfields, Stackspears and Paynes haven’t committed yet._

“My lord, what of the Leffords?” Ser Tarrence growled. “They could let the trout into the West easily.”

“We shall have to hope that they do not,” Kevan answered grimly. “The Tullys were broken in the western riverlands by the wolves, ser. I doubt they have the strength to launch an invasion up the river road.”

“Could we ask the Starks for aid?” Ser Ellard said hoarsely.

“Their army was broken too, ser,” Joanna answered quietly, “and they were not close to our borders when it happened.

“The freed folk of the Islands lack the men, I’m afraid, and have little training in arms,” Father added. “They can send ships, but that is all.”

“Better than nothing,” Ser Tarence boomed.

_If not by much._

As they rose a few hours later, Joanna wondered briefly if Tyrek Lannister were right. She was the daughter of a fourth son of a Lord of the Rock; not as much of a prize as Genna, but eligible nevertheless. Her grandmother had pushed that idea down, reminding her that “_there are more men than in the West that would be interested, my girl.”_

_‘Who?” _she had asked.

_“Never you mind, but we’ve had guests that looked at you even when Ty was there.”_

_“I don’t think…I don’t know…”_

She had collapsed sobbing into her grandmother’s arms at that point, the image of Ty waving farewell as he rode eastward with the royal party frozen in her mind.

_May the Reynes burn in hell for what they have done._

SER OLYVAR TOLAND

It was as if a nightmare had broken from dreams into the real world.

Clouds of smoke billowed down from the Tor, most of them through the great hole punched in the sandstone walls by one of the Allyrions’ battering rams. Olyvar’s horse pranced nervously, and he had to spur her along the narrow track leading up to the castle gates. 

Inside was little better. The Tor had been beautiful the last time he was there. Unable to pass the Ghost Mountains to the south, the gentle rains that blew down from the Sea of Dorne had kept the castle gardens green and lovely in even the height of summer. Now, there were corpses scattered among the flowers and along the gravel walkways, a few of them leaning against the orange trees as though asleep. Olyvar knelt down to close one’s eyes, caring little that the man wore Yronwood yellow. Sea smoke was blowing in again, mixing with the wood smoke rising from the keep. Their fight won, Olyvar’s men at arms were already hurrying to extinguish the flames. _I told Jon not to use the bloody flaming arrows._

The Jordaynes had made a grave error underestimating Sunspear’s wrath. Fearful that theGolden Company would use its base in Tyrosh as a launching point for an invasion of the far south, Prince Nymor Martell had ordered the immediate sack of both Yronwood and the Tor, a decision made easier by the marcher lords’ defection to the black dragon’s cause. The Fowlers and Manwoodys had come down on Yronwood with fire and steel as the Allyrions, Vaiths and Tolands gathered their strength on the edge of Lord Jordayne’s lands. Many of the Tor’s men at arms had fled into the hills upon hearing of Lord Mors’ end, flung from the highest tower of his burning castle.

_And now the Jordaynes have met the same fate. _Olyvar stopped to issue a warning to an Allyrion sarjent. They all had the same orders, to leave the servants and maids of the castle be, but he had heard unpleasant rumours of what Godsgrace’s men had done when the Yronwoods last rose for the Blackfyres, some twenty-five years past now.

“They’ve gathered in the hall, ser.”

Uthor Dayne’s cracked voice brought Olyvar out of his thoughts. He smiled at his squire as they dismounted to enter the central keep of the Tor; he didn’t know if the boy would be interested, but knew that a night together after a good fight was always something to remember. Olyvar wanted to take advantage of every such moment that he could have.

This war would be something truly serious, much worse than the Blackfyre Rebellions in which his father had fought.

For the Faith had largely turned on the Targaryens.

The Starry Sept hadn’t dared, under the Hightowers’ thumb as it was, and the High Septon still professed his loyalty, but rumours of the White Dragon’s devotion to the old gods had suddenly taken wing in every corner of King’s Landing, and continued to spread across the crownlands. The Archseptons of Gulltown, Stonehelm, Maidenpool and Seagard had all turned on the Targaryens, with the wandering and village septons not far behind. The Houses in the northern Reach and southern stormlands—both of them enemies of Dorne, where the King’s mother had been born—had followed. In the last few days, the Swanns, Fossoways, Estermonts, Wyldes and Trants had raised the black dragon, forcing the Baratheons to call back the forces that they would have sent northward to support Lady Rhaelle’s father in the riverlands. At the same time, the latest Blackfyre Pretender was losing most of his bannermen in the far south. The Hightowers had crushed House Costayne, and the Tarlys and Daynes—the oldest of enemies—had made common cause to march on Starpike.

“This is madness!”

Robart Jordayne had been forced to his knees in the great hall of the Tor, with Jon Allyrion’s blade resting on the back of his neck. His family was cowering in a corner, along with a handful of the Tor’s surviving men at arms.

“Indeed.” Olyvar reached the treasonous lord with a few long strides, his spear already drawn. “You declared for a man with no ties to Dorne at all, over a man whose mother was born at Starfall, while surrounded by enemies. That was madness.”

“You think…you think you have the upper hand?” The Tor’s lord laughed. “You haven’t seen what I’ve seen, Toland.”

“No. Nor do I care to.” Without wasting his time on proclaiming a sentence, Olyvar drove his spear deep into Jordayne’s throat, ignoring the shrieks of the captives watching. As he withdrew it, his armour and tunic were stained red.

“Could you not have brought him back to your lady love’s father?” Jon grumbled.

“He didn’t want any captives, my friend.” Tearing a piece from Jordayne’s fine robe, Olyvar began cleaning his spear. “How many wounded?”

“A few dozen.”

“Very well. See to it that they’re tended in the infirmary. We can set to work repairing that wall in the morning.”

“I still think it unwise—“

“If we leave this place empty, someone will come and take it, Jon.” He could understand the Allyrion knight’s reluctance; Nymor had ordered that Jon take command of the Tor until it could be awarded to a new lord. _He doesn’t want to miss a chance for glory. Too bad._

“Ser?”

It was too late to ride for Ghost Hill, so Olyvar had retired to the Jordayne children's old chambers that evening, leaving the master room for Jon. The window offered a stunning view of the coast, and the still, grey waters of the Sea of Dorne.

He turned to see Uthor stretched on the bed they had shared, and grinned. He had taken his squire by the hand after they had shared a brief meal with the Allyrions, leading him to the little room. Olyvar had seen the Dayne with his shirt off before--Dorne was warm, and the height of summer was only a year past--but had still gasped with pleasure as he'd flipped Uthor onto his front, baring his bottom. Olyvar was intended for Loreza Martell, Prince Nymor's heir, but hadn't shared a bed with her yet. Neither expected the other to wait.

"Yes?" Smiling, he returned to the bed.

Uthor traced a strange shape on Olyvar's chest. "What was Lord Jordayne talking about? With what he'd seen?"

"I don't know." It troubled Olyvar too, come to think of it. He didn't know what could have persuaded the Lord of the Tor to risk everything--_lose everything, in the end. _The Yronwoods had raised the black dragon three times before, but the Jordaynes were nowhere nearly as strong. 

_Did he think that Aemon Blackfyre was sure to win? Why? _ _Did he know that the Arryns and Tullys were going to join him?_

Olyvar sighed. He didn't want to go north, if he were being honest with himself, didn't want to ride across the Red Mountains into the green lands where most of the war would be fought. Oldtown was one thing--the southern Reachmen and the Dornish were more alike than either cared to admit--but the riverlands and Vale were cold places, both in climate and the hearts of their people. Intolerant, too, from what he'd heard. 

"For now, though...we're here, are we not?"

The two drew closer once again.


	17. Chapter 17

BRANDA

Rising with the sun, Branda saw Rickard Karstark as she descended the narrow track to the Blue Fork, staring out at its rushing waters. He turned to acknowledge her briefly as she knelt to wash her face with a handful of the river. _He’s not said much these past few days._

Looking back, she could see why. The slopes beneath Oldstones were packed with tents, debris shelters, and men sleeping in the open. Few of them were from Karhold. True to his word, Lord Aleric had come alone, with only his household guards, when called. He had fallen duelling Lord Piper, who had met his own end when trampled by a horse, and all but two of the guards had met the same fate. The sour-faced boy skimming stones into the Blue Fork was now the third most powerful lord sworn to Winterfell, but had to face the glares and mutters of those who thought that the Karstarks could have turned the tide at Atranta. One of the Norrey men had had to pull young Mors Umber off the Lord of Karhold some time before they’d crossed the Blue Fork.

_Fools. _As tempting as it was to blame the Squidslayer and his father, Branda knew that the Karstarks would have lost their men along with the others. As it was, Rickard Stark had at least one strong House to guard the North’s eastern coasts against the sellswords, pirates and other miscreants that had sworn themselves to the Blackfyres.

Branda could scarcely believe what had come to pass. She knew of the Golden Company—her father had served with the Wolf Pack, but every child that grew up in Essos knew of the continent’s most feared sellsword army. Rodrik Stark claimed to have met Bittersteel himself when he was still Captain General. But she could never had guessed that they’d gotten their claws this deeply into the Seven Kingdoms. _The Vale, the riverlands, many of the western houses—their allies are everywhere. And we’re alone._

Scarcely six thousand of the fifteen that her cousin had called to come southward were still living, not enough to force any of the crossings. Atranta had been a true bloodbath. Even after Theomore Tully and Edwyle Stark met their ends at each other’s hands, the two armies had continued to fight for hours, eventually separating when there were almost too many bodies to leave space for fighting. Branda had seen her father and Edwyle fall, and didn’t know what had happened to her mother, or Lords Glover, Umber or Wull. She had taken command of the remnants of the Stark forces, screaming until her voice was hoarse to get them to _move, _to leave Atranta before a second wave of trout swept down and slaughtered them.

_Little that that matters._ The North was well and truly trapped. The bridges across the Green Fork were in Frey, Vance and Roote hands.They were cut off from the Blackwoods, and the royal army further eastward. Seagard lay under siege from the Twins. Jon Arryn would send a tidal wave of knights rolling down from the Bloody Gate any day now, and would have the men to divide his forces between the royal army and the North, crushing the armies loyal to the Red Dragon before sweeping past the Golden Tooth into the west, or down to King’s Landing with the Golden Company, or wherever he took the fancy to go.

The last gambit they were taking was truly desperate.

Another six days’ ride westward lay Ironman’s Bay, where there _might _be ships from the Freedman’s Islands waiting to carry them north to Blazewater Bay. Branda had heard little good about the islands since the end of the war with the Greyjoys—fights broke out near daily between ironborn smallfolk, former thralls and settlers from the west and Reach. Dozens of ships had made landfall on Bear Island and Sea Dragon Point, carrying freedmen and -women seeking better land, and safety. The Norreys and Wulls had been welcoming—there was plenty of land in the Gift and on the Point—but that hardly made things better for Branda. She couldn’t imagine that there were all that many people left in the islands who would care one way or another about northerners stranded in the riverlands.

_But it’s the only way forward. _The Freys to the north, the Estrens to the west, the Shawneys and Keaths to the south—there was no way home by land.

Seeing Rickard Karstark begin his long trek back up to the ruins of Oldstones castle, where the other commanders would be waiting for them soon, Branda followed. She hoped that the Shawney free riders that had plagued them for days would have given up once they crossed the Blue Fork. The surviving Umbers and Wulls had torn the bridge down, and there were few other points south of the treacherous Hag’s Mire where their pursuers could cross, that she knew of.

_Although if there are, it would be typical of this damned war._

AERYS

The Whent knight roared as he ducked under a vicious cut from Aerys’ mace, narrowly missing the prince with a thrust of his sword. Tired and angry, Aerys struck his horse instead, sending the other man crashing to the forest floor as his beast died.

They had been pushing westward, trying to reach Raventree Hall to break the Brackens’ siege, when the latest party of riverlanders had ambushed them from the south. There weren’t as many of them as Aerys had feared, but the constant attacks had the four thousand men under his command on edge, and were wearing away at a force that he couldn’t easily replace.

“Bloody hot work, this.”

Steffon sighed as he rode up to Aerys, finishing another Whent soldier with an almost casual swing of his warhammer.

“Aye.” Looking around, the prince could see that the fight was over. The Wendwaters, Stauntons, Blounts and Crackclaw Point soldiers under his command, and the Errols and Selmys that had joined Steffon’s house soldiers, were striding around the copse, periodically plunging their swords of spears into the necks of fallen river men to make sure the job was done.

“Take us another two days to reach the Hall at this rate.” Steffon pulled off his helmet to wipe sweat from his forehead. “Hopefully Darry goes under afore then.”

“Good luck with that,” the White Dragon jested, turning his horse to survey the damage to the baggage train. His grandfather had led the remainder of the crown lands forces up the kingsroad the day after the latest Blackfyre Pretender raised his standard, hoping to sack the Darrys before the forces of the Vale—_yet another bloody problem—_could ride down to reinforce them. As far as he could tell, their strategy was to pin the Black Dragon’s men on the wrong side of the Trident until the west and Reach could send their full strength rolling north and east to crush the Vale, riverlanders and Golden Company.

_The problem is that it won’t bloody work. _The Reach was struggling with the Peakes, Costaynes, Caswells, Fossoways and Florents, all of whom had declared for Aemon Blackfyre; the west was reeling from Tywin Lannister’s murder and hadn’t yet given battle to the Reynes and Tarbecks, and the stormlands had seemingly split down the middle, with nearly a third of Lord Ormund’s bannermen choosing the Pretender’s side. The royal forces were already stretched thin, and the Arryns hadn’t even passed down from the Bloody Gate yet. Nor had the Golden Company.

As they began to move again, leaving the little grove littered with bodies, Aerys couldn’t help but think of his family, back in the Red Keep. For the time being, the royal fleet was more than strong enough to keep the Golden Company from landing in the crownlands, but the war-torn stormlands were far too close for comfort, as was the eastern edge of the old Tully lands. The trout hadn’t fully recovered from their battle with Edwyle Stark, especially since the Crackclaw lords and the Darklyns had laid siege to Maidenpool. Nevertheless, the Whents were still strong, hidden comfortably behind the great walls of Harranhal, as were the Brackens, Vances of Wayfarer’s Rest and Smallwoods.

Not for the first time that day, Aerys cursed Edwyle Stark’s memory under his breath. The idiot wolfhad allowed his forces to be pinned down and destroyed, and it seemed unlikely that Rickard Stark would be able to raise another army in time to affect the outcome of the war. _The North has been rendered useless. _He had heard that half the Stark army had escaped, more than the third that the Tullys had been able to recover, but had no idea where they might be, or if they had scattered to the winds. _In any event, they’ll be no help to us._

Steffon was wrong. They reached Raventree shortly before dusk.

Aerys hadn’t been back to the hall where he’d been fostered in years, and the differences were obvious. The Blackwoods had pulled their small folk back to the shadow of the castle itself to protect them from Harranhal and Stone Hedge’s raiding parties, and he had to ride through a thong of small folk to make his way to the walls. Raventree Vale hadn’t suffered yet—no villages had been burned out, and the weir woods were intact—but he was uncertain how long that could last.

“Aerys.”

As he passed through the gates, the quiet voice cut through the noise around. Benjicot Blackwood stood awaiting him at the door to the keep, with Aerys’ cousin Ratagast close beside him. The Lord of Raventree was a tall man, but clearly showing his age; his jet-black hair was fading to white, and his hooked nose was redder than ever.

“My lord.” Not even years in the Red Keep could fully break Aerys of the habit of obedience that he had learned here; he bowed his head as he slid from his horse.

“Edmund is not back yet, I fear. The Brackens have been active around Blackbuckle today.” Aerys knew that the Blackwoods cared for their small folk more than most of the lords he knew, and he could see the pain in the older man’s eyes. “What news from the Trident?”

“Little good.” Aerys accepted a mug of cider brought to him by one of the serving girls; he couldn’t remember her name, although she had blushed a good deal when she came up to him, making it clear that she knew who _he _was. “Grandfather has pressed into Darry lands, but they’ve pushed back. The Whents are still striking northward, we were attacked at least seven times on the way here.”

“Why did he make you divide your forces?” Ratagast interjected. The heir to Raventree had his father’s features, but none of his subtlety. “You’re cut off from the King completely now.”

“Leaving the western riverlands occupied was a bigger threat,” Steffon explained. He nodded politely to Lord Blackwood; they, too, were kin through Grandmother, and the young stormlander had visited Raventree while Aerys was being fostered there. “Grandfather hopes to crush this end of the Blackfyre forces before they make it down from the mountains, so that he isn’t flanked at the Ruby Ford.”

“So he’s picked a battle site, then.” Benjicot beckoned for them to come inside, weaving his way through crowds of men at arms, servants and other smallfolk as they made their way into the great hall.

“They can’t cross the Trident at any other point, my lord,” Steffon agreed. “And they can’t land on the southern banks of the river either. If he wants King’s Landing, Aemon Blackfyre needs that ford.”

Just as they were about to ascend the stairs to Benjicot’s solar, a shout rose up from the courtyard. Turning, the Lord of Raventree strode briskly back outside, followed by his guests. A party of men on horseback was entering, with Edmund Blackwood at their head, clutching his shoulder.

As if the years had slipped away, Aerys ran forward to help his former ser from his horse, shouting for a maester. The old Blackwood chuckled.

“Trained you well, boy. It’s but a scratch.”

“Dont listen to him, your Grace,” one of the other soldiers shouted. “Took a knife there, he did, duelling Lord Lefford’s boy.”

Aerys’ blood ran cold. “Lefford?”

“Aye, the bloody westerlanders were with the Brackens this time.” The rider spat into the dust of the courtyard. “Sent forces down to reinforce Riverrun and Stony Sept, they have. Pinkmaiden too.”

“You should see the boy, though,” Edmund growled as Aerys helped him into the hall. “Stabbed him in the bowels, I did.”

“You’re losing blood too fast to be bragging!” the White Dragon snapped, only for the older man to chuckle.

“Mayhap I am, but I don’t wish to die as gloomy as I lived.”

“His head must have been injured if he’s joking,” Ratagast muttered.

“Mayhap ’twas.”

Then Edmund went silent as Raventree’s maester, a young man unknown to Aerys, lifted him onto a stretched to bring him upstairs, helped by two of the kitchen staff.

“We thought you knew about the west.” Aerys turned back to see Benjicot behind him. “They entered the riverlands days ago.”

“Then the Lannisters have failed us. Again.”

“Their bannermen have failed us.” Ratagast was clearly angry. “So scared of a single heart tree that they can’t be bothered to lift a bloody finger, they are. The Crakehalls haven’t stirred themselves, nor the Serretts or Brooms. The lion cub doesn’t have claws long enough to give them a good scratching, is their problem.”

Aerys shook his head slowly. “This is my fault.”

“Perhaps it’s Grandfather’s.” They turned to see Steffon, now taking off his armour slowly. “He should’ve known that sending you here would have that risk.”

“And what would that risk be, exactly?” Benjicot said softly. Aerys felt a chill run down his spine; he knew just how bad a sign that tone was.

“That Aerys would fall out with the Faith,” the Baratheon said stubbornly. “The Blackfyres wouldn’t have had a foothold here otherwise.”

“And mayhap if your uncle hadn’t made the mistake of breaking his betrothal, there’d be less reason for the Tullys to—“

At the mention of his father, Aerys’ vision went red and he could hear blood rushing in his ears. Steffon barely caught his hand before it cracked Ratagast across the mouth. The blood drained from the younger Blackwood’s face as he realised what he’d said.

“Ae…I’m…”

“Is that what I am to you?” the Targaryen prince snarled. “A _mistake_?”

“Enough!” Benjicot shouted. “Enough, both of you!”

Realising that the Raventree Hall servants were looking at them, Aerys flattened his palms in a sign of surrender. As Steffon released him, he could see shame flooding through his other cousin’s face.

“Ser Steffon, I’d remind you that you’re a guest in my house,” Benjicot said sternly, “and that we donot keep the same Seven as your father’s family. And Aerys….Ed raised you not to have a short temper.”

“Forgive me,” Aerys said quietly. He felt nearly as embarrassed as Ratagast must. “It was a long ride…”

“You’ll have many long days as a Prince and a King, gods willing. That’s no excuse,” the Lord of Raventree said sternly. “It does us no good to fixate on what is past. And Ratagast…I raised you with better manners than that, boy. My solar. Now.”

As Steffon and Aerys followed one of the keep’s servants to their chambers, the heir to Storm’s End looked at Aerys in astonishment. “You let him speak to you like that?”

“Old habits die hard, you should see what Uncle Edmund was like. And I was in the wrong. I’m his guest.”

“You could always convert,” Steffon suggested as they reached their rooms, which overlooked the pond beneath the western wall.

“To the Faith?”

“Make a big public show of it, announce your betrothal to some devout little girl from an Andal house. You’d rob the Blackfyres of a great weapon.”

“Everyone would know I’m lying.” Aerys leaned against his doorframe to remove his boots.

“They wouldn’t mind.”

“The Houses that already pledged to the Blackfyres wouldn’t change their minds.”

“The western Houses that haven’t moved might.” Steffon fixed Aerys’ purple eyes with his blue gaze. “Is King’s Landing worth a heart tree, cousin? Is Lannisport?”

Before the prince could reply, his cousin had vanished into his own chambers.

ULLA

She had taken the wheel at the end of the last watch before the morning, unable to sleep any longer. Red Wolder had muttered something grateful-sounding as he stumbled off towards his bed beneath the brig’s deck.

Ulla had been at the helm of _Lord Gerold’s Vengeance _once or twice over the past few days, mostly to try it out. She had never steered a vessel larger than _Moondancer _before, but suspected that she would spend a fair bit of time in command of the great brig in the moons to come. Unable to swing a sword, she nevertheless had good instincts at the helm. _Might as well be useful in some manner._

Looking to her right, she could see the rest of the fleet keeping pace. The Jolly Fellows’ _Surf Tiger _was flanked by the Old Mother’s _Oathbreaker, _both of them round dromonds built in the typical Essosi style. Ulla was grateful that the ships her folk had taken weren’t; the Braavosi had sent ships from their Shivering Sea fleet, built for the rollicking waters of the cold north. _Surf Tiger_ was already having trouble.

“You’re up early.”

She started a little as Aemon Blackfyre walked onto the rearcastle, John Mudd close behind him. The King was fully clad in his armour already, all traces of his Company’s gold replaced with black and red. The sword that had given his family their name hung at his side.

“And you’re quite ready.”

  
“I shall have to be.” Upon reaching her, Aemon turned to look out over the Narrow Sea. “This shall be…an interesting day.”

Westeros stared back at him. The coast of the Vale, wild and rocky with occasional windblown pine trees peeking up from the mountains, had been visible for just over a day. Ulla had been above deck when a red-sailed hooker out of Gulltown had been spotted, following them from a distance. Joron had warned her not to let any of the longships go chasing their observer; the Vale’s shores were treacherous to sailors unfamiliar with them, and sudden winds had pushed many a ship onto the rocks. The hooker had turned back south after fourth bells, shortly before they’d passed the mouth of Egen’s Cove.

Now they were approaching the mouth of the Vale proper, where they would meet with Lord Arryn himself. Ulla felt rather worried; she knew that the man’s forces had ridden against her brother at the Cape of Eagles.

“You seem unsettled.”

“You’re not wrong, your Grace.” Ulla sighed. “They…the Arryns fought my family just a few moons ago. I don’t know if…”

“Your brother did not die at a Valeman’s hands.”

She turned her head sharply. Aemon was still staring out at the Mountains of the Moon, and a small rocky beach where they met the sea.

“How do you—“

“Dreams, usually. I saw the Cape, after a fashion.”

“How do you know it was the Cape?”

“I saw a white dragon hatchling break free of its eggshell, and wrestle with a drowned man, a great kraken and a purple man with a bloody moon for a head.”

Ulla caught her breath.

“The moon man was the first to fall, Lady Wynch, crushed beneath the dragon’s claws.” His Grace turned to look at her, his purple eyes sparkling a little. “It was the White Dragon himself, the Weirwood Prince, who snuffed out your brother’s life flame.”

“How do you know that your dreams are what happened, your Grace?”

“Aemon, just Aemon, you’ve done enough for me to have the use of my first name. They are…not common dreams. I saw my brother’s death while I slept, and my father’s before that.”

“Dragon dreams.”

He smiled, looking surprised. “You’ve heard the term, I see.”

“My first mate…”

“He’s a selkie.” Her mouth dropped open. “Oh, you need not look so surprised. I was wondering how you knew that the Braavosi fleet would do what it did. Truth be told, Ser Donnel thought you would be ambushed, and that we’d have to offer you captured cogs and the like from the Tyroshi harbour before you could sail for us. But…yes, there are stories about the Farwynds, always stories.”

“Most greenlanders never hear them.”

“Most greenlanders never read _Songs the Drowned Men Sing, _Lady Wynch. My father left a copy lying around when he was trying to raise Lord Dagon’s men for himself in the last invasion.”

“Who was your father, Your Grace? I fear we never heard much of your family in the Iron Islands.”

“Viserys, son of Haegon I Blackfyre, son of Daemon I Blackfyre. He was in the Golden Company, and died at the Wendwater Bridge.” A note of sadness had come into the young king’s voice. “I don’t remember him, not at all, I was born after he’d been killed by some stormlander archer. Daemon, the cousin I lost, was Daemon, son of Daemon III, son of Haegon. He would have been king before Maelys or me, but he didn’t live long enough to father children.”

“And the one that Bloodraven murdered?”

Aemon actually snarled a little. “Aenys had one daughter. The pale mare took her before she had four years.”

“And your mother?”

He turned to her, his eyes slightly wide, and laughed. “No one ever asks me about her.”

“Until me.”

“Until you. She is Grazdai za Qhoran, of New Ghis, so we have a little blood of the harpy in us, my sisters, Aegor and I. And some friends in Slaver’s Bay, too.”

“I wouldn’t remind people of that where you’re going.”

“I shall not. Look!”

He pointed towards the shore. Ulla gasped a little. They had rounded a great mountainous head, and though the mist, she could see fields, little villages, a road and a great castle lying along a rocky beach stretching as far as the eye could see. _This must be the Upcliffs’ seat._

“The Vale, and—ah, they’re here. Excellent.”

Looking further, Ulla could see a great cog anchored off the shore, immediately in front of the castle. To her surprise, a Blackfyre banner flew from its mast. Beneath its walls was a mass of banners, few of which she could see.

“That will be part of Lord Arryn’s host. The rest await us at the Bloody Gate.” The King laid his hand on her shoulder for a moment, sending a strange thrill through Ulla’s body. “I must see to it that my men are ready.”

“Your Grace, what is that cog?”

A shadow passed over his face. “Something…that we shall have need of. From Tyrosh. You ought to come beneath as well, my lady, they shall no doubt wish to speak with you.”

“With ironborn?”

“If they’re stubborn, I’ll box their ears,” the king laughed.

Somehow, she suspected that he was deadly serious.

+++

The landing boat ground to a halt on the rocky shore. While Aemon would normally have gotten out first, he waited until the Wynch men could lift Ulla’s chair, and then the woman herself, onto the beach. _Courteous._

There was a light mist hanging over the fields as a small party of Valemen rode forward to meet them. She recognised blond, tall Jon Arryn instantly, as his House insignia was prominently displayed on his armour and shield. A red-faced man in Redfort colours followed him, as did a lean knight with nine gold stars on his black shield, and an older woman with an arrow sigil.

“Your Grace.” The Lord of the Vale waited to speak until dismounting and sinking to one knee. “The Vale is yours.”

“Rise, Lord Arryn.” Aemon’s voice was somehow—joyful. _He is on Westerosi soil for the first time. _“Rise, all of you.”

“I fear we are unfamiliar with your guest, your Grace,” the red-faced man huffed as he got back to his feet.

“Ah, yes. Lord Redfort, may I present Lady Ulla Wynch of Pyke.”

She saw the knight’s face stiffen. “The Wynches…the Wynches are an ironborn House, your Grace.”

“Indeed. Lady Wynch’s men sailed the ships that brought us over from Essos.”

“Your Grace…” the older woman began, hesitatingly, “many of our Houses fought against the ironborn, as did the riverlands. If you’re seen with reavers…”

“I fear I do not know your name, my lady,” Ulla said brightly, although a pit of irritation was threatening to consume her stomach.

“Gilda Hunter,” the other woman said, with a tone of contempt in her tone.

“Hunter, yes. I remember the names of the Houses that fought for Daemon I from the Vale,” Ulla answered, keeping the unnaturally cheerful tone in her voice, “but the Hunters don’t seem to be among them. Nor the Arryns,”—she realised that she had made a mistake here, as she saw both the King’s and Jon Arryn’s teeth clench—“nor the Redforts. But here we all are. Things change.”

“In addition,” Jon Mudd added, “Lady Wynch’s fleet will be sailing northwards to harry the Starks, so you need not fear her being seen _with _his Grace very often.”

“What were you offered, my lady?” Jon Arryn boomed.

“For my services to the Crown? My family’s lands back, and the title of Lady Paramount of the Iron Islands.”

“Reasonable, I suppose,” Lord Redfort muttered.

“Aye,” Aemon said firmly. “My lord, the Weirwood Prince will take your lands as surely as he took the ironborn’s if he isn’t stopped. What happened to them was not right.”

“And what of the thralls?”

“If they swear allegiance to me, or the rightful lords of the islands where they live, and pledge themselves to the Faith of the Seven or the Drowned God, they are welcome to remain,” Ulla said quietly. This last point had caused screaming arguments between herself and the other captains, but she had ultimately prevailed. Particularly since few former thralls would be willing to live side-by-side with their former masters. “Not those that killed women and children, but…ironborn fight amongst _ourselves_ fairly often, Lord Arryn.”

“You aren’t wrong about that,” Gilda Hunter said sharply, only to be met with a glare from her liege lord.

“In any event,” Arryn said hastily, “we can begin our march westwards as soon as it please your Grace.”

“Excellent, we shall begin unloading our troops, then,” Aemon replied. “In that case…I shall follow you to your camp in a moment, my lord. A moment of your time, Lady Wynch…”

Once they were alone, with only John and Joron beside them, the King began to laugh quietly.

“Your Grace—“

“That was funny, even if it didn’t seem so at the time.” Aemon’s eyes were amused. “Donnel Arryn and King Daemon crossed swords at the Redgrass Field, my lady…specifically, this sword.”

He tapped Blackfyre.

“Forgive me.”

“No, no, Lord Arryn will have to learn that the past is the past, at least for the sake of this war. Lady Wynch, I have something I must ask of you when you return to sea.” He pointed to the great cog, still standing at a distance from the rest of their fleet. “That ship must be escorted southward. Head north as if you're to land at the Sisters, or attack White Harbour, but after that, turn back, keeping far out to sea so as not to attract attention."

“I shall, but your Grace, what exactly is the cog for?“

“You will know in time, but it is _essential _that that ship not fall into enemy hands. After that…fall upon Gulltown as hard as you can.”

“Why did you say--.”

“That’s what I wanted to be heard. Redfort’s wife is a Grafton of Gulltown, so whatever he hears will make its way to the Falseborn’s children, even if he does not mean for it to. And as you do that…I will see to it that the ironborn smallfolk hear that the last Wynch still has sails and axes at her command.”

“Excellent.”

“Until we meet at King’s Landing then, my lady.”

“Until then, your Grace.”

RHAELLA

The day had dawned grey over the Blackwater Bay.

Rhaella reached the Small Council’s chambers just as her grandmother did. Her parents were already at the head of the great ovular table, side by side as always.

“We’ve word from His Grace,” Grand Maester Kaeth began, his breath slow and laborious as always. “His forces have reached the walls of Castle Darry, and are pressing the remaining riverlands forces hard along the edge of the Trident.”

“Better than nothing,” the queen answered tartly. “What about the Golden Company?”

“They are said to have landed at the far end of the Vale of Arryn yesterday,” Edgar Sloane interjected. The Master of Ships had already been old when named to the small council, after seventeen years as a quartermaster for House Redwyne’s fleet. Rhaella suspected that Father would relieve him of his duties shortly; the Reachman’s caution had served them well in building up the royal fleet, but would be unhelpful in a sea battle.

“By whom?”

“The Manderlys.”

“Have they called up their own ships, then?” Rhaella asked curiously.

“Only a handful, my princess.” Lord Sloane sighed. “White Harbour lacks the coin to keep a full fleet afloat, and so they are unable to challenge the Company at sea. But they did say that the ships carrying them…flew ironborn flags.”

Father’s eyes widened a little. “Which ones?”

“Let me see…Ser Owyn spoke of…Houses Wynch, Stonetree, Saltcliffe, Volmark, and…hmm…I believe this is House Ironmaker he’s speaking of here.”

“Are there any ironborn left?” Mother said disbelievingly.

“Some ships fled the islands before the Reach and West took their share of land, but there cannot be many.”

“This could be what we need,” Jon Peasebury muttered. “The Reachmen and the West hate the ironborn. If they think the Blackfyres will restore their lands…I shall give instructions to those I speak with.”

_Just say spies, my Lord, we all know why you hold the office that you do._

“That won’t address the problem in the Vale, though,” Torgold Gaunt growled. The Master of Coin’s hands were bunched into fists. “Unless we send aid to Gulltown—“

“We cannot,” the queen said wearily. “We lack the men for that, as has been explained, my lord. The Graftons’ loyalty is admirable, yes, but we need to hold King’s Landing first. ”

“If the Golden Company marches on the city—“

“They’ll be too busy going after my husband, ser.”

“We ought to discuss another part of the King’s letter.” The room turned back to the Grand Maester, who was still looking at the scroll. “I presume their Graces have read this, but for the rest of you—his Grace has authorised the Prince of Dragonstone to take whatever steps are necessary to crush this rebellion, with his full authority.”

The expressions of the other lords changed little. _If they knew…._

“What do you propose we do, my prince?” Lord Peasebury said cautiously.

“We need to divide the Blackfyres, ” her father began. “It’s obvious, my lords. The Blackfyres have the edge on us because they’ve divided our forces. We could assemble greater numbers than them if all of our loyal Houses brought their forces together, but they’re nipping at our heels wherever we turn. Unless we can split those forces on the edges off from the main body, we won’t be able to crush them, and the Golden Company will overrun any defences we cobble around this city.”

“How do you propose we do that?”

“Slavery.”

“I beg your pardon?” Lord Appleton said incredulously.

“The Golden Company is from Essos, Lord Hand.” Her father’s tone was determined now. “They’ve fought for slaver cities. The Pretender’s mother is from a noble family in New Ghis, the greatest power on Slaver’s Bay. The Blackfyres have gained the upper hand by spreading these rumours about my son. Well, two can play at that. First Man or Andal, north or south, _nobody _in Westeros wants slavery on these shores. If the smallfolk believe that they will have to share farmland with gangs of slaves, they will turn on Aemon Blackfyre as surely as on us.”

“And what of the allies they’ve already won?” the Hand said cautiously.

“Leave that to me,” the Prince of Dragonstone said mysteriously.

_Let’s hope that that’s a good idea._


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 17 has been edited (Ulla's perspective).


	19. The Battle of Gulltown

MARIUS

The Royces had come at dawn.

Called to attend his grandfather and granduncle on the walls, Marius had watched as the long columns of armed men trudged down the winding road, the bronze banners of Runestone flying over their heads. They were led, he could see, by a small party of knights, among whom he assumed Lord Royce to be. A handful of Shett banners were scattered here and there; one of the family’s youngest sons had been a squire at Runestone, and was doubtless among the approaching army.

_There’s something wrong here. _There couldn’t be more than a thousand men advancing on Gulltown—enough to overwhelm the Graftons’ much smaller force, which had had less time to gather. Nevertheless, it wasn’t enough to force the Gulltown gates. _Are they planning to starve us out? Wait for more forces from the Waynwoods or Melcolms? _He knew that the latest Blackfyre Pretender had landed further north nearly a sennight past, in the Vale proper, but doubted that the man was on his way to force the surrender of Westeros’ fourth-largest city. Last they had heard, Aemon Blackfyre was on his way to the Bloody Gate, three sellsword companies’ worth of cavalry behind him, to meet up with Jon Arryn’s main host. Castle Darry, beneath the Gate, was said to be at the point of collapse after half a moon’s siege by the King’s own army.

“You ought to parley with them,” Ser Baelor said quietly to his brother.

“Why?”

“It’s custom—“

“Bugger custom!” Lord Gilwood snarled. “They’re on my land with swords and spears, probably already sacked half the villages they passed, and I’m supposed to follow _custom? _The only custom we’re keeping is pouring boiling oil on the buggers’ heads when they get close enough!”

Marius sighed and looked off to his right. To the south of Gulltown’s harbour, the Bay of Kittiwakes was roiling, its grey waters whipped this way and that by a high wind coming off the Narrow Sea. The Graftons’ ships could be seen among the waves, patrolling against an invading fleet that he prayed wouldn’t come. _They’ve still King’s Landing to conquer, after all, and there’s no other fleet from the Vale that can match us at sea._

“The archers are ready, my lord.” Leo Grafton, one of Gilwood’s grandsons, came up huffing and puffing, his helmet almost slipping down the back of his head. _Boy’s too fat, and no mistake._

“Very well. See to it that the oil is kept hot, and the smallfolk don’t get too close to the edges of the walls. Go.” The Lord of Gulltown turned back to the field beneath, where the Royces were beginning to draw up their forces.

“If I didn’t know better, my lord, I would think you were getting fond of your smallfolk in your old age,” Marius teased.

“Don’t want them getting in the bloody way,” the old man growled. “I didn’t call you up here to run your lip, boy. See to it that the rubbish tips are ready above the gates, and remind ‘em to hang any man who turns tail and runs.”

“Aye, my lord.” Marius made his way down the wall, stepping around men at arms—_aren’t those two from the Watch? Oh well—_while trying to shield his head from the intermittent gusts of rain that were starting to blow in from the bay.

His granduncle had ordered heaps of broken pottery, nightsoil, brick shards and other waste placed on detached doors over the gate, ready to slide onto any attackers. Unsurprisingly, it stank, and Marius had to warn the guards not to hold their noses, least they let it slip and crash before the Royces were in reach.

Another man tapped him on the shoulder.

“What?”

“There’s a man down there who wants ye.”

Frowning, Marius looked over the parapet, to see a young knight under a Blackfyre banner on horseback.

“What the fuck do you want?!?” Marius roared.

“Ser Marius, I am Ser Mychel of House Royce, sent—“

“Get on with it!”

“Septon Gerion, a holy man sworn to the King, is beneath your city, is he not?”

“What of it?”

“We had word that you had taken him captive, does he yet live? His family is worried.”

“If he cared about his family, he shouldn’t have come sticking his nose in our city!” the older man called back. “If you want him back, I’ll rig him to our catapult, does that suit you?”

“You’ve forgotten your vows if you would harm a holy man of the Seven!” Ser Mychel shouted.

Sighing, Marius signalled behind his back for one of the guards to give him his longbow and an arrow. “You’ve forgotten something too, Royce.”

“Namely?”

Straightening, Marius drew back the bow and planted an arrow in the other knight’s breastplate. Swaying for a moment, the boy seemed to be reaching for his sword, only to collapse from his saddle. His horse, panicking, shook the armoured body off and bolted for the Royce lines.

“Always raise a peace banner if you don’t want the other man using weapons.” That got a laugh from the guards as Marius handed the bow back to its owner and turned to return to his family. _Don’t suppose the Royces will be all that happy with me. Not that they would’ve liked any of us to begin with. Too bad._

“What the fuck are they playing at?” Gilwood snarled as Marius returned to the Lord of Gulltown’s position at the western end of the wall.

He was confused for a moment, until he looked out at the field. The Royces had stopped moving entirely, their foot drawn up with shields extended.

“They’re out of reach of our arrows,” Baelor answered calmly.

“Why come this close at all, then?” his brother barked. “The Gull’s Egg would be a better place to lay camp.”

“Wait. Look.”

Marius had thought he had heard something, and turned around. From their vantage point, he could see almost all the way to the Gull Tower, and its signal chamber near the top. His eyes had caught the small flag being waved.

“Seven Hells,” Lord Gilwood swore.

It was a red flag with a white dot in the centre. The signal for raiders at sea.

The Blackfyre fleet had come.

ULLA

The Bay of Kittiwakes had the worst weather since the Arm of Dorne.

Ulla had had to tie herself to the railing besides the helm, as she lacked the lower body strength to keep herself from being flung headlong into the waters below if the ship rolled.She doubted it would get that bad, but knew that thought would be little comfort if she ended up in the Narrow Sea.

Around her, the sailors were tying down the hatches, testing the scorpions mounted along the edges and sharpening axes. They were unlikely to see combat that day—_this siege will take longer than a day, for sure—_but it never hurt to be ready.

Looking forward, the last of the Wynches could see the red sails of the Grafton fleet, almost hidden by the waves now. Most of them were the round-bellied hookers that had tracked them on their way to the Vale, but she could see a handful of enormous full-rigged ships behind them. _They have to be half again as our largest._

_And certainly bigger than that damned cog._

The Tyroshi ship had been a drag on the fleet since they’d left Castle Upcliffe. Designed for the southern seas, it rolled and pitched terribly in the Shivering Sea, and she had had to order the entire group to turn south ahead of schedule, out of fear that it would go to the bottom with all hands elsewise. The crew, most of them Ghiscari-speakers, had assented reluctantly, without allowing any of the ironborn to board, or come all that close.

_I understand that we’re seldom welcome guests, but…what is going on aboard that ship? _It flew no flags save the black dragon, and clearly didn’t belong to the other sellsails, who were keeping their distance. She had tried to ask the Jolly Fellows’ flagship about it, but gotten nowhere; the Lorathi crew clearly didn’t trust the ironborn. The Old Mother’s vessels had been ordered further south, to support the Tyroshi as they prepared to strike west towards Dragonstone. She was tempted to let the cog take the lead as they confronted the Gulltown fleet, but suspected that the king would be unhappy with the loss of the old ship.

“Dunstan’s almost to their lines.”

Joron’s voice pulled Ulla out of her thoughts. Through the driving rain, she could see the Sunderly bastard’s _Stormrunner _pitching forward through the waves, a small Gulltown hooker turning around to try and avoid the larger brig.

“Don’t call him back,” she muttered grimly. “He knows not to pursue too far forward.” _That, and I think there’re more scorpions than needed to deal with the bigger ships that are close enough. _The nearest of the full-rigged ships was off to the west, and would be unable to turn without placing itself in Haaka’s sights.

“This is a large fleet all the same,” Joron muttered unhappily. “Are we to fight our way through?”

“Not sure.” Ulla felt a pit of unease in her stomach. Together with the Jolly Fellows, they had almost as many ships as the Valemen, enough to force a stalemate and cripple the Graftons at sea, but not without terrible cost to their own ships. _Was this Aemon’s idea? Get rid of his least inconvenient allies and the only enemies he has in the Vale at one swoop?_

She shook the thoughts off. _No. _Without their ships, the Blackfyres would be unable to match the crownlanders, loyal stormlanders and Redwynes all at once. The Reachmen were almost certainly on their way; the Arbor had stayed loyal to the Targaryens, and Aemon’s allies in the Reach and West had no more than a handful of longships. _He needs us for Blackwater Bay, and the royal fleet. Though I doubt we’ll be enough._

“What’s the bloody fool _doing_?”

At a roar from one of her crewmembers, Ulla turned, only for her heart to sink.

The cog had made its move. Sidling around the remaining ironborn longships, it approached the front of the fleet.

“Signal him to turn back!” she yelled at the top of her lungs, as the cog began to pass her own ship.

Joron stood, reached for the signal flags, and collapsed, his hands wrapping around his head.

“Jor, what…”

She heard a low moaning. Red Walton, one of the oldest of the Wynch sailors, took the flags and frantically waved to the cog, while Poxy Tom hauled Joron to his feet.

“Jor!” She leaned as close as she could to her friend.

_“No…all wrong, all wrong…whhhyyyyyy….”_

“He’s taken an apoplexy!” Tom shouted. “I’ll get the—“

“_No…..the cog, it’s all wrong…”_

“Jor—“

_“Steer clear of it, steer CLEAR…” _His eyes rolled back into his head as Tom half-carried, half-dragged him to the hold.

_What in the Storm God’s name…._One thing was for certain: Ulla had no intention of going close to the cog.

“He says it’s king’s orders, captain!” Walton roared.

“Very well. Signal the others to hang back.”

“Captain?”

“There’s something wrong with that ship!” Ulla shouted. “Let him go forward, and _do not sail any further, _is that clear?”

At Walton’s waved signals, the other brigantines and the little longships hove to, letting their unwelcome guest take the lead.

MARIUS

He had to strain his eyes, but Marius could just see the fleet making its way up the bay. Gulltown was nestled into the rolling hills of the Gulls’ Neck, and there was little distance between where he stood and the harbour.

“Take more men to the harbour, _now_,” Lord Gilwood snapped. “There’s not enough to turn back whoever they are if they break through the fleet. _Go.”_

Marius scrambled down the nearest stairs to the Belt Lane, a cobbled street that separated the wall from the town, shouting for men at arms to follow him to the harbour.

_Ironborn. _He had heard the rumours, that a fleet of reavers from the Iron Islands had carried the Golden Company across the narrow sea, but hoped they weren’t true. The ironborn could probably outsail most Valemen, and the Grafton fleet would be hard pressed against them.

_Bugger, bugger, bugger—_

ULLA

As the crew trimmed the sails, the cog rolled forward into a fresh cloud of rain, leaving the ironborn well in her wake. Squinting, Ulla could see the cog’s crew running around the deck, seemingly trying to—_what in the hells? _They were opening a hatch. _In this rain? They’ll get swamped out!_

“Ulla…”

She jumped as she heard Joron’s voice. The Farwynd reaver was pale as he pulled himself up the rearcastle steps, but clearly better.

“Jor, what—“

“When that cog passed….there’s something wrong. It’s better now that she’s further off, I think, but…” He leaned against the capstan, clearly still shaken. “I could hear screaming, so much screaming…”

Ulla looked at him, concerned. The Farwynds had a well-earned reputation for madness, and this would be a bad moment for her first mate to hurl himself into the sea as his granduncle had supposedly done some forty years before. _But….he’s a selkie. _She couldn’t help but remember what he’d said about keeping his eye on the Lonely Light. _Is he mad, or hearing things that we cannot?_

“Human?”

“Some of it. Not all.” His eyes stared vacantly after the cog. “Whatever you do, steer clear of her, do you understand?”

“I know.” Seeing Walton’s flag signals, the _Stormrunner _had already called off her pursuit of the hooker, allowing the cog to catch her up.

“It might go to the bottom of the sea, and save us the trouble,” Tom cracked. He had followed Joron onto the rearcastle, thankfully not overhearing their conversation.

“I don’t think that would make things much better,” Joron said solemnly.

“Why in the Storm God’s name do they have that hatch open?” Walton shouted, his voice almost whipped away by the wind.

“Dont know, don’t want to,” Ulla replied, never taking her eyes off the cog.   
_Please just sink and let this be done with, _she thought.

MARIUS

Sliding off his palfrey, Marius sprinted onto the biggest of the Gulltown jetties, a spyglass given to him by one of the guards in hand. Behind him, he could hear the guards forming a defensive line, and archers nocking their bows in preparation.

He muttered a string of confused curses as he brought the glass up to his eyes. They were ironborn, no doubt about it, and in much bigger ships than he’d expected. The nearest had a drowned man on a banner, the biggest a bloody moon on purple. _Sunderly and…Wynch, I think? _But they were hanging back, allowing a much smaller ship, with the round hull of a trader, to take the lead. The smaller fishing hookers had dropped back, and he could see the enormous _Smith’s Hammer _changing her course to meet the little ship.

_Is it a trap?_

He turned to one of the harbourmaster’s guards, who had followed him onto the jetty. “Can you signal them?”

The shorter man shook his head. “Too damned far, ser, and too much rain.”

“What in the hells…well, make sure the archers are ready, anyway.”

ULLA

She heard a shriek from the cog.

“What was that?” Tom shouted.

_And how did we hear it? _The little trader was much too far ahead for sound to carry.

Joron’s face had gone the colour of off milk.

“Jor?”

“Just…just keep our distance,” the Farwynd muttered. “Please.”

“She’s almost in range of the full-rigger,” Walton growled. “They’ll sink her.”

“Don’t bet on—what?”

The cog’s crew was running for cover, leaving the decks clear, and the hatch door wide open. Only the helmsman remained visible, as he jerked the wheel to the right.

MARIUS

“She’s hove to,” the knight muttered in disbelief. “Is she trying to lure the—“

Then something shot up from the deck.

ULLA

“HOW?”

Joron’s scream of shock echoed across the deck as a dark shape shot out of the hatch, weaving around the rigging and hurtling towards the harbour.

Ulla stared up in disbelief.

_What…_

MARIUS

He heard a scream from above, almost as though a man were being torn apart limb from limb somewhere in the skies over Gulltown.

_What in the Seven Hells—_

“ARCHERS!” he shouted, turning and running back towards their lines.

By the time the Gulltown defenders had turned upwards, it was too late.

The shape dropped from the sky like a stone, only to level off as it reached the top of the Tower. As Marius shouted for the archers to aim, fucking _aim, damn you to the Seven Hells, _he could see a small, armoured figure perched atop the thing. Before he could aim, the figure had thrown something onto the Tower.

With a roar like a whole pack of lions, a green jet of flame erupted, shattering the Tower’s roof and sending stones flying onto the rooftops of the surrounding houses. Even from the other side of the city, the shockwave nearly knocked Marius backwards into the water, and he was only saved by one of the guards, who grabbed his arm. Flames leapt from the ruined tower, and would have latched onto the surrounding buildings if they had still stood. Normally, there would’ve been rows of shops and houses between him and the tower; at least half of them were either knocked down, or left swaying perilously.

Then the thing turned to make a second run, towards the Saltwater Sept, and he could see it clearly.

It was a wyvern.

With a rider on its back.

ULLA

The wildfire’s roar could be heard from her position at the capstan, as the Graftons’ great tower collapsed in on itself.

“They…I can’t…”

She turned to Joron. “That wasn’t a dragon…was it?”  
“Wyvern, but…Ulla, they _never _accept riders. Something was done to them.” Her first mate’s eyes were fixed on Gulltown, where the thing was diving towards a point west of the tower. “I—“

A second bolt of wildfire shot upwards. What was left of Gulltown’s trading and harbour district was nearly gone now, as building after building fell under the shockwave.

MARIUS

They had no time to react.

As the Saltwater Sept went to pieces, bits of stone shooting in every direction like crossbow bolts, he could see the scorpions atop the walls turning to fire at the wyvern. Before anyone could cry out a note of warning, the first bolt had missed—but caught the rider’s attention. The wyvern turned towards the northern wall.

He couldn’t move, transfixed with horror as the beast shot towards where his grandfather and granduncle stood.

ULLA

The flames that rose were red this time, those of exploding oil rather than wildfire. Still, a great section of the northern Gulltown wall vanished under the wyvern’s wrath.

“The rider must have jars of it,” Tom growled. “This is…unbelievable.”

“They’ll have to surrender,” Joron added. “Look at the city.”

There was little left of the very centre of Gulltown. The newer wooden houses about the edges were still intact, but the ancient heart of the Graftons’ seat was nearly reduced to rubble, the warehouses, counting houses, fishmongers’ shops and chandleries that had served the harbour all gone.

Then the beast turned towards the harbour.

“Does it mean to burn the damned docks?” Tom grumbled. “Job to land without them, it’ll be.”

“Wait.”

MARIUS

The wyvern arced over the smouldering customs house, and landed on the stones scarcely a dozen furlongs from the Watch commander.

It was a vicious-looking beast, with a pointed face, needle-like teeth, and a crazy patchwork of green, white and black scales. The saddle on its back was enormous, with saddlebags almost the size of its feet. _That must be where the wildfire was._

And it had a rider.

As Marius watched, a slender figure in thick black armour jumped to the ground, a curved sword in each hand. One of the guards yelled and drew his arm back to hurl a spear, only for the wyvern to slice him open with a casual swipe of its jagged talons.

“Stand down!” the knight roared.

“You’re a smart man, Lord Grafton.”

The rider removed her helmet. She had coal-black hair, chocolate brown eyes, a small nose—_she’s stunning, pity she had to go and kill my entire bloody family—_and tan skin.

“I am no lord.” Marius had to put a lot of effort into keeping his voice from wavering.

“There certainly aren’t any more Graftons left, not after the upper half of your tower vanished and your fool archers tried to kill me.”

“Strange thing to be offended by.”

“Perhaps.” She smiled; Marius was reminded of a shark. “In any event, you’re the lord, by default, although I don’t doubt my brother will attaint your House in favour of the Shetts.”

“Not much of a city you’ve left them.”

“Most people live on the western side of the city, which you know better than me.”

“Who are you anyway?” Marius growled.

“Of course.” She gave a mock bow. “My name, Lord Grafton, is Calla, of the House Blackfyre, Princess of Dragonstone, sister to the rightful King. And now, my turn to ask. Do you yield?”

“Yes.” Marius was surprised by how easily the answer came to his lips. He knew that if he refused, the beautiful, slender woman before him would burn what remained of Gulltown to cinders.

_Like she burned your family. No, no, stop thinking about that, don’t provoke her._

“Excellent. No need for us to fight a battle when we both know how ‘twould end.” Calla Blackfyre climbed back up onto her wyvern, the beast growling a bit. “Open your gates, and stand that fleet down. I imagine our escort would appreciate a chance to take on supplies.” Around her, his men had begun to lay down their sword and shields.

“If they begin looting, I cannot speak for what my men will or will not do.”

“I don’t think House Shett would be particularly happy with me if the city were sacked after yielding,” the Blackfyre princess grinned.

_Shetts. Bloody Shetts. I swear I’ll kill every last one of them._

“One more thing, your Grace?”

“Yes?”

“I have no interest in being tortured.” Before she could move, Marius had turned and dove off the edge of the docks. He could hear shouts behind him as he hit the water, straining to swim beneath the water’s surface.

He wouldn’t have been able to make it all that much further, but luckily the jetties were wooden. Pulling himself up the column, the Grafton knight had to prevent himself from gasping in air. He began to pull his armour off piece by piece, lightening himself as much as possible.

_They won’t have time to search every jetty in Gulltown, and the nights get dark earlier and earlier at this time of year. Once the sun sets, I can slip back through the city and be away._

_Although to where, I’m not certain._

Then it hit him. The hookers would dock near where he was now, and the little ones could be sailed by one man if needed. At night, not even ironborn would be able to watch every inch of the sea. 

_So the last Grafton will sneak out of his own city like a bloody thief. Well, it beats having my fingernails pulled out._

ULLA

As they watched through a spyglass, the Grafton ships struck their colours, running up the white flag of surrender.

“Looks like we’re clear to dock,” Joron said quietly.

“That was…unbelievable.” Ulla was surprised how weak her voice had become.

“You must tread carefully,” the Farwynd boy warned her, as the rest of the crew returned to their stations. “What she did to Gulltown—“

“It’s not so different from what reavers—wait, she?”

“I watched the docks,” Joron answered. “That was a woman.”

“His sister.” Ulla muttered.

“Pardon?”

“He said he has three sisters, she must be one.”

“Why put her in danger?”

“Only the blood of the dragon can ride dragons.”

“These are wyverns.”

“They are, and they aren’t.” Ulla stared at the smoking heart of Gulltown as the fleet began to sail for port again. “Wyverns don’t take riders, Jor, you said yourself. They did something to them.”

“Perhaps.”

“You should stay on the ship.”

He nodded quickly. “Whatever those things are…I don’t want to get near them.”

“Any idea why?”

“You said it yourself, they did…_something _to those wyverns. I spent a fair bit of time in your father’s library, and what the Valyrians supposedly did to get the first dragons…it wasn’t pleasant. Magic, and the worst kind.” He turned to go beneath decks.

“Tread carefully, captain, whatever you do.”

+++

By the time they reached the Gulltown docks, Royce men were patrolling the waterfront, glaring suspiciously at the ironborn as they cast the moorings over. Parties of them were running this way and that, seemingly searching for something.

“Wonder what slipped through their fingers?” Ulla murmured to Tom.

“The last Lord Grafton.”

She nearly jumped out of her skin. The wyvern rider had swung herself over the gunwale onto the brigantine’s deck, and was ascending to the rearcastle. On the dock, Ulla could see her wyvern, which was chewing on what appeared to be half a horse.

_Good thing I sent Joron below decks._

“Your Grace.”

“Interesting.” The slender woman laughed a little. “I see my brother talked with you about his family, then.”

“Indeed. Are you Calla, Sera, or Rohanna, your Grace?”

Her eyebrows raised a little. “He really must have taken a fancy to you, Lady Wynch, Aemon doesn’t talk about his family all that much. Calla is my name, though I’ve had many others—wyvern rider, Cally, little bitch, I forget the rest.”

“Who was bold enough to call ye little bitch—Your Grace?” Walton said disbelievingly, hastily adding the title at the end of his words.

“I didn’t ask his name, and he’s in no state to tell you now.” Her eyes, a classic Valyrian purple, flicked back and forth across the deck—_this one’s used to being in danger, for sure. _“In any event, Lady Wynch, you’d be well advised to take on supplies here before you carry on south.”

“Were those your brother’s commands?”

“He didn’t tell you? The next stop for you is the Gullet, to rendezvous with the rest of the fleet.”

Ulla barely kept herself from groaning. _So soon? _Aegon V’s army was still at large in the riverlands, and the King hadn’t even crossed the Trident yet. They would have no support on land.

“Take whichever of the Grafton ships you want, I don’t think you’ll be wanting those little longships if you’re going up against the royal fleet.” Calla stretched. “Except the biggest, I think they call her _Smith’s Hammer. _That cog is a pain in the arse, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, and I’m to sail south with you.”

_Sorry, Joron._

“Your Grace, I think some of my men are…nervous about the wyvern.”

“Grazzaxes.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“She’s named Grazzaxes, for our mother. And yes, she’s a fierce bitch, but she’ll be staying beneath the hold until we’re in sight of Dragonstone, except for when I fly her. She won’t trouble you with me on her back.”

“How many…are there?”

“Six, though she’s the largest.” Calla pointed to the cog, which had docked further eastward. “There’s one more below the decks, Aemon’s Vermithor, though he’s not large enough to carry oil or wildfire yet. Once we take the city, I’ll take him to my brothers host, and he can make a King’s landing on the steps of the Sept of Baelor.”

_This….changes things. _The one thing the Targaryens had been known for, before the Dance, was being the world’s last dragonlords. The beast now gulping down the horse’s last haunch was small, far smaller than Balerion or Vhagar or the original Vermithor—but it could fly, carry deadly wildfire and seemingly tear a man in half.

_We might actually win this._

_We might get to go home._

MARIUS

The rainstorm had cleared out by the time the last bells rang over what remained of Gulltown.

Marius was shivering as he pulled himself up onto one of the smallest hookers, cut the ropes and extended the oars. He had learned to sail and row as a squire, like most Grafton children, and had little problem getting out onto the water. A pair of ironborn longships patrolled the Bay of Kittiwakes towards the south, but he had little trouble evading them; the watchmen were clearly looking for attacking ships from the crown lands, not for stragglers escaping Gulltown. 

Once past them, he let the sails loose. It was a little under a day's sailing to Crackclaw point, a Targaryen stronghold in every Blackfyre Rebellion since the first. He would be little more than a hedge knight, without a single man at arms under his command. But he'd come up through the Watch ranks, and was used to long, hard service as a man at arms. _I'll have my head, which is more than that Blackfyre bitch might have left me at the end of the day. And my name._

_But there's a long road ahead, and no bloody mistake._


	20. Chapter 20

AERYS

A swift breeze had dissipated the last of the day’s heat as they prepared to make camp. Aerys walked among his men, signalling for them to avoid kindling any fires. Pinkmaiden was less than half an hour’s ride away, and he feared that the Piper scouts could be everywhere. _Good job we’ve cold meat from the Goodbrook stores._

He and Steffon had sacked House Goodbrook’s keep two days ago, descending on the small castle at midmorning. One of the stormlander squires, Barristan Selmy of Harvest Hall, had slain Lord Goodbrook in single combat, and Aerys had fought his two sons at once, leaving both of them broken and still in the castle courtyard. The man’s heir had been with the Piper raiding parties that had struck into Blackwood territory, and the Targaryen prince was hoping to lure him back to his home—only to find a smoking ruin; Aerys had forbidden his men to waste time with the villages nearby, but the keep would need at least a moon’s turn of repairs.

Now it was the Pipers’ turn.

_It would be for the best if this were all done quickly._

Like most in the Seven Kingdoms, Aerys had heard the rumours from Gulltown—a wyvern rider of House Blackfyre, wildfire and oil blasting the centre of the Vale’s greatest port to ruins, the Graftons wiped out and their ships given over to an ironborn fleet that had appeared from nowhere. He wasn’t sure that he believed the stories about the wyvern—they were savage beasts, and scarcely ridden by any man that didn’t end up in their bellies—but Gulltown had surely fallen, and his grandfather was alone against the power of the Vale and the Golden Company alike, hundreds of leagues to the east. He had argued to be allowed to return, but the ravens from the Trident had made matters clear; an ambush from the rear by the riverlanders, or the western houses that had gone over to the treasonous Reynes, would be far worse than the absence of his forces at Castle Darry. So they rode, day after night, night after day, through the western riverlands, crippling the Tully bannermen’s ability to raise a new army for the Blackfyres. Lychester first, then Goodbrook, now Piper—he supposed they’d be on to the Vances next. In any event, Clement Piper would have the chance to avenge his nose tomorrow.

_Wonder if it’s crooked these days?  
_“Word from Raventree,” Steffon said quietly as they entered their shared tent, at the centre of the camp. “The Leffords were spotted moving away.”

“I don’t suppose the lions have stirred themselves at last?”

“They must have.” His cousin was silent for a moment as they unwrapped their cold cheese, meats and apples from a checkered cloth. “If they can’t help us, we’re probably lost.”

“I know.” Aerys sighed. They ought to be winning, with the Tyrells and Lannisters both still loyal to the red dragon, but the Blackfyre had tied both Lords Paramount up in the south and west. He had met Luthor Tyrell many years before, and doubted the man could bring down the Costaynes, Caswells and Peakes before King’s Landing fell. And Tywin…

_He was the last lion with truly long claws, I think._

_+++_

It seemed as if the morning came all too quickly.

Aerys was up before the sun, quietly urging, cajoling and snarling at his men to _get moving, now, _as they watched nervously for Piper men. Most of them had slept in bedrolls on the ground, to prevent time from being wasted putting up and striking tents.

Pinkmaiden Town had woods right up to its southern edge, and they were able to creep past the edge of the smithy before a villager sounded the alarm. A Blount archer shot him down, but it was too late, as the bells began ringing in the sept.

_Bugger. _Roaring for his men to move, Aerys spurred his horse on. The gates of Pinkmaiden were already closed, and he could see sentries appearing at the top, only to be greeted by a hail of arrows from the stormlanders.

“Ladders!”

The men bearing them ran forward, only to stumble as stones and crossbow bolts rained down from the ramparts, killing several of them. Others tried to take their place, as the handful of marcher bowmen that Steffon had brought shot back at the Piper archers, leading to cries of pain from above. Hefting their shields over their heads, Crackclaw and Wendwater men with short swords and hammers prepared to scale the walls, as their comrades propped them up.

“Look out!”

Young Barristan Selmy’s cry of warning came almost too late. The Pinkmaiden gates had opened a crack, allowing a party of Piper knights with long lances to sally forth, trying to scatter the footmen as they began their ascent.

_Foolish, that. _Aerys howled for the handful of knights amongst them to follow him, as he, Steffon and Barristan lowered their own lances and charged to meet them. Arrows flew over their heads, bringing down several of the Piper men.

“DRAGON!”

Aerys laughed with a savage delight as he saw the leader of the men: a red-faced, bowlegged man barely older than he was.

“Ser Clement!” They clashed hard, the knight staggering back as Aerys splintered his lance on the dancing maiden shield. “Nose still bent, I see!”

“I’ll send you back to your whore grandmother in pieces, you tree-loving bastard!” Clement roared back as he drew his sword.

Aerys just laughed again, and unhooked his mace. The first blow dented Ser Clement’s shield, splintering the dancing girl’s head.

“Looks like you’ll need some other mouth to put around your cock, Piper!”

“FUCK YOU!”

_Seems like he’s out of japes. _Ser Clement was a powerfully built knight, but no match for the White Dragon; he almost fell off his horse as Aerys broke his sword in two with a vicious swipe of his mace. Around them, the Pipers were losing ground. Steffon, Barristan, Ser Willem Staunton and Harlan Grandison of the Kingsguard had killed several of them, and arrows kept flying as more riders tried to charge through the gate.

“FORWARD!” As Steffon cut down the burliest of his opponents, he spurred his horse towards the gate, followed by a dozen of their knights. The Pipers had been unable to close it, and Aerys could hear the sounds of clashing steel from the courtyard. _The climbers must have gone over._

“No!” Clement Piper turned his head—a fatal mistake. Aerys knocked off his helm with a quick flick of the wrist, and then caught the heir to Pinkmaiden on top of his skull with a downswing, shattering his skull. As his enemy fell, Aerys charged after the other knights—

—only to see Steffon collapse as he passed the gate, an arrow in his chest.

A wordless scream coming from his mouth, Aerys rode down the nearest Piper man, then swung off his horse. There were knots of Piper and Targaryen soldiers fighting across the courtyard, and the White Dragon charged into group after group, striking down the enemy from behind with his mace, braining a squire with his battered shield, pulling another man off Ser Willem and beating him almost into the flagstones with his mace…

At some point, he lost track of where he was. There seemed to be more and more Piper men about him, and he ended up spinning, his mace extended as far as possible, denting and breaking shields and spears alike.

“Your Grace!”

He couldn’t stop now, had to—

_“Your Grace!”_

Suddenly, young Barristan was in front of him—too close. Aerys pulled back his mace, and the weight caused him to fall to the ground.

“It’s over, Prince Aerys, it’s..it’s over.” He could feel the boy kneel down to help him up.

Looking around, Aerys felt his mouth gape. He was surrounded by ten dead Pinkmaiden soldiers, all of them showing the signs of a mace attack. Across the courtyard, the only remaining Pipers were groaning or screaming on the ground, as the Targaryen men strode back and forth, killing those who were still moving.

Dropping his mace, Aerys rushed across the courtyard to Steffon. Ser Harlan knelt beside him, trying to hold the Baratheon boy’s head up, but it was clearly too late; blood bubbled from Steffon’s lips, as he had clearly taken a sword stab after the arrow.

“Steff…”

As Aerys took Steffon from Harlan, he thought that his cousin tried to say something, but he eventually stopped breathing altogether.

“Your Grace…”

“Find the silent sisters, there must be some in this damned town.” Laying his cousin out on the flagstones, Aerys stood back up. He could feel a strange combination of hot and cold anger mixing in his chest. “See to it that the dead’s bones are sent back where they belong. Barristan, you are in command of the stormlanders among us from this day forth. Prepare the men to leave shortly, we’ll make camp on the road. Wayfarer's Rest is next."

“What of the castle?” the marcher knight asked quietly.

A sneer of hatred flashed across Aerys’ face.

“Burn it all.”

BRANDA

The fleet hadn’t come, and she wasn’t sure why she had thought it would.

Mors Umber and Rickard Karstark, their feud seemingly forgotten for now, rode close behind the Stark woman as she headed up their long, narrow column. Those who had survived the long trek to the rocky beaches of Ironman’s Bay, still visible from the high coastal road, were in good health, their armour repaired over nights by the campfire.

They’d had little news of any sort since crossing the Blue Fork, and she was uncertain what lay ahead of them. The West was divided, she thought, but which houses were red or black wasn’t clear to anyone in the remaining Stark army.

“Wish we had a map,” Umber rumbled, his hand constantly going to the grip of his sword. The hillsides were covered in thick, dark pine groves, and the risk of ambush was quite high.

“Why?” Branda had taken to practicing with Ice in the evenings, usually with Rickard, and it was now slung over her back. _Hope I can use it if the need comes._

“Any river landers we meet will be black dragons, the westerners might not,” Lord Karstark answered grimly, his eyes darting all around. “I wouldn’t say no to a village market, get some new supplies. We’ve a bit of coin.”

“If it’s the riverlands, we could just take it,” Umber pointed out.

“I don’t think—“ Branda flung up her arm and the column came to a halt.

“What in the hells—“

“There’s someone up there.”

At once, Rickard, Mors and Harrald Woods, one of the last surviving members of Lord Edwyle’s personal guard, had their swords drawn. Branda signalled for them to wait as she urged her horse forward, towards the little pine copse surrounding the trail. She had seen a figure vanish into the trees, for certain.

The nearest of the trees stretched over the road. As Branda watched the edge of the branches closely, the hiding man made a mistake—his foot, clad in a heavy black boot, slid out from behind a cluster of needles. She slowly pulled her feet from the stirrups, while signalling her horse forward, forward…

As the palfrey came into the shadow of the trees, Branda leaped from the saddle to the branch, came down in front of the startled man and grabbed him by the collar.

“No! Mercy!” He was in his twenties, with more of a boy’s appearance than a man’s, and asigil of four red eagles on his jerkin.

“What are you doing here?” she snarled, reaching for her heavy saxe knife. She could hear Rickard dismount behind her.

“Scouting! We thought the Baneforts might send their men up this way to flank us!”

“Mors! Fetch your brother!” Branda shouted, never taking her hand from the boy’s collar.

She could hear the older Umber grumble behind her, and go sloping off. A minute later, footsteps came back in her direction, growing louder and louder, until thin Hother Umber was crouched beside her. Partially trained as a maester, he had kept many of their men alive.

“You called me?”

“Aye. Which house has this sigil?” She tapped the eagles symbol with her knife, causing the boy to whimper.

“Estren of Nunn’s Deep, sworn to the Lannisters.”

“Reynes!” the boy shouted, then shut his mouth quickly.

“Reynes, is it, now?” Hother said quietly. “So you’re a Blackfyre man, then.”

“I…no…”

“That would explain why he was frightened of us. The Baneforts aren’t, are they?”

“I…”

“Boy, I studied medicine at the Citadel,” Hother warned him. “If you lie to me, or the lady here, I’ll know _exactly _how to inflict as much pain as possible on your sorry arse. Now. are you fighting the Baneforts out here?”

“They…the road to Nunn’s Deep is easily defended!” the boy shouted. “They’re coming around here! We were supposed to ambush them…the surf road leads to the Goat’s Track, and you can get to the Deep that way!”

“Well, then.” Branda smiled. “Where is your lord’s army?”

“At…at the crossroads. Please…”

She slit his throat rapidly, throwing him aside before his blood could cover her jerkin. “Hother, Mors, Rickard, tell the men to pick up the pace.

“It looks like we’ve an ambush to disrupt.”

+++

The crossroads was actuality quite a pleasant place. Here, the surf road, as the boy had called it, dipped down to the stony beaches. A small village was huddled about the point where a narrow track descended from the windblown hills, passing by little groves of pine trees on its way.

“They’re there.” Harrald pointed to a stand of spruces overlooking the road just past the village, almost concealed by the low thatched roofs. As she followed the direction of his finger, Branda could pick out subtle movements. The Estren men had concealed their position quite well.

“Line up there,” Rickard called quietly, pointing ahead to a point just before the road descended to the village. Branda nodded as she followed his finger: the village’s grange was situated at the eastern end, and the peak of the roof would make it very hard for any Estren archers to hit them. They filed forward quietly, spearmen going first to form a thick shield wall along the road.She doubted that the Estrens had heavy cavalry with them, and

“Then let’s get started.” Branda nodded to Harrald, who called out orders quietly. The northmen parted ranks to allow the remaining archers to make their way to the front, most of them short, hardy mountain clansmen. A pang went through Branda’s heart as they took up their positions. _They rode with us to avenge Brandon Norrey, but….how many more of them now must be avenged against the Tullys? Where will this end?_

The first arrows hit their marks, and a chorus of screams went up from the little copse. As the clansmen nocked a second round, Branda heard shouts, and arrows began to fly back.

“Cover!” She ducked behind her horse as an arrow narrowly missed her head. Peering over its back, she could see a small party of Estren foot emerging from the copse—to their loss. Once in the open, they were easy marks for the Stark archers, while the grange still prevented their own arrows from hitting the northern column. _And I doubt they can even see the shield wall._

When the second volley hit the trees, the Estrens responded in full. The woods seemed to move as waves of men in dull green clothing charged onto the road, shields held high above their heads.

“That’s most of them, I think,” Rickard muttered, drawing his axe from over his shoulder.

“We won’t break the wall unless we must,” Branda answered sternly, making sure that the Umber brothers heard her as well. “We have the high ground here—“

A rumbling from the road drew her attention, and she swore. The Estrens had drawn their forces up around the point where the village green narrowed back to the road, and their cavalry was now advancing, nearly thirty knights in chain mail with lances elevated.

“I thought they wouldn’t—“

“Must’ve been in the trees,” Mors spat, drawing a sword that looked to be longer than Ice. “Best tell the—“

“Wait.”

“What?”

“That sound.” Branda cocked her head to one side. “That’s too loud for thirty men.”

_It sounds like when we saw the Company of the Cat in the Disputed Lands, and that was—_

“Look!” Hother shouted.

A cloud of dust was rising from beyond the copse, where the trees blocked the view of the road.

“Get ready.” Branda’s tone was grim.

“Why?”

“Because the Estrens are about to get shoved up against our lines. All forward! Get ready to advance with shields and spears forth!”

She dismounted and shouted for the foot to line up behind the shield wall, preparing to back up their comrades against a heavy impact. Mors and Hother joined her, the two last Hearth men towering over the northerners around them.

They had just gotten into a block when the cavalry emerged from the copse.

There had to be close to two hundred of them, riding under grey banners with a hooded man in the centre, all in plate armour, with enormous destriers and heavy ashwood lances. She could hear shouts from the Estren ranks as the attackers thundered through the village, and their own knights turned to meet the new threat.

_Too late._

House Banefort’s men crashed into the Estrens like a storm off Ironman’s Bay, riding down the foot and turning the small party of cavalry aside with ease. As their enemies backed up, trying to regroup, Branda shouted for the northerners to begin advancing, with Mors echoing her words at the top of his lungs. Pikes and spears down, the Stark foot began to press down the road, pinning their foes into a narrow stretch of the surf road, flanked on either side by enormous boulders.

The Estrens couldn’t hold, so they didn’t. As the Baneforts crushed them against the Stark shields, Branda could hear many men screaming to surrender, with no answer from their enemies. Those who weren’t hacked apart by the knights were stabbed by the northerners, or simply suffocated as the mass of men was pushed into a smaller and small space. Lending her shoulder to the Stark press, Branda could feel the Estrens fighting to get out, in vain.

It felt like an hour until Mors shouted out that they could stop. Looking over the men’s shoulders, Branda could see what looked like an open grave, with masses of men completely still. Several of the Banefort riders had dismounted and were walking across the hill of corpses, occasionally stabbing downwards with their swords.

She signaled for the men to clear her a path, and made her way onto the uneven terrain in front of their lines, Mors and Rickard close behind her. Her tunic had an enormous Stark wolf on the front, and she hoped that would be enough for the westermen not to stab her on sight.

“Ser—a woman?”

The squire who had hailed her seemed confused as he came closer and flipped his mouth guard up.

“Branda of House Stark. Who is in command here?”

“Er…that would be Ser Jason, milady. What are you doing here?”

“We got trapped on the western side of the Blue Fork.”

His mouth gaped open. “So you made your way _here?”_

“How far are we exactly?”

“Near to the end of Ironman’s Bay! This is Banefort land!”

“Oh.”

“Don’t get me wrong, we’re happy you’re here, I think, but…”

“Why do you only _think _it?” Rickard growled. “We pinned them for you, didn’t we?”

“Joss means that the north has an…interesting reputation.”

A second man—_no, this is barely more than a boy—_had approached them, taking off a black helm carved in the shape of a screaming head to reveal bright red hair, pale skin and the barest hints of a beard. His eyes were dark brown, nearly black, and seemed out of focus.

“Ser Jason, they’re—“

“Starks, even _I _can see that.” The man chuckled. “Joss, see to it that the dead are counted.”

The squire nodded hastily as he scrambled off, leaving the Stark woman and the knight looking at one another across the body of a dead Estren.

“The rumours of smallfolk massacred in the riverlands have carried,” Ser Jason said calmly. His voice was surprisingly high-pitched, especially given the vicious-looking flail hooked to his belt. “Joss was uncertain if it would be a good idea to have you riding with us.”

“That wasn’t us,” Branda said firmly. “We found some of those villages, ser. It’s an easy thing, carving a heart tree’s face into a door. And look what’s happened.”

“You think the Tullys slaughtered their own smallfolk?”

“I doubt it, but…we gained nothing by doing it. Nothing.”

“That is true,” the other answered. “That said…well, you are here now. As long as you refrain from mistreating the people of this village—“

“Are they Estrens or Baneforts, then?”

“They pay their taxes to my lord father, if that’s what you mean. I imagine the Estrens were…not kind to them, but we shall have to see. How did you know to draw them out?”

“We captured a scout,” Branda replied.

“I see. Did he tell you about that?” Jason pointed to the narrow track.

“He said it was the only way to…Nunn’s Deep, yes?”

“Yes. The hills betwixt the Banefort and the Deep are good for shepherds and iron miners, bad for cavalry. This is the quickest way. If they’d pinned us from that copse, it might have taken us days to break through.”

“And now?”

“This was about half of the Estrens’ strength. Sloppy, really.”

“_Half?”_

“They’re gold-rich, land-poor. Not many levies to call up. We’ll have to take care of ambush, but the road to the Deep should be open for…how many men do you have?”

“Six thousand.”

Ser Jason’s dark eyes widened. “_Six?” _His tone was almost identical to Branda’s of a moment ago.

“Aye.”

“Six…I don’t think the Deep will last too long, then, if you ride with us. After that…Castamere.”

“The Reynes?” Hother rumbled.

“Indeed, ser. Lord Kevan’s called up every house in the West, but few answered, too few. The Plumms, Presters, Cleganes and Lannisters are tied up at Tarbeck Hall away in the south, the Marbrands and Westerlings can’t break through the Reyne lines around Castamere, and the Leffords have joined the siege against House Lydden off to the east. If we take the Deep, though…we’ll pass the Pendric Hills, where the Paynes have their seat, as we ride westward. They might think twice about refusing the Lannisters’ call if we’re at their door.”

“How many do you have here, though?”

“We’ve seven hundred all told, which is still more than the Estrens could call up. The other nine are under my brother Quenton at the Crag.”

“Very well.” Branda turned and signalled for her men to come forward. “We can pitch camp on the beach, and press on tomorrow, I should think.”

“Good. Two days’ riding to Nunn’s Deep are ahead of us.”

JOANNA

_Wyverns._

She had seen pictures of them in her storybooks as a little girl, curling back in fright as her mother’s finger traced the outline of the savage-looking Sothorysi beasts.

Now, Joanna looked up constantly as they approached Tarbeck Hall, a little pit of fear growing in her stomach every time that clouds crossed over the ocean road and blocked out the blue skies.

They had far too few men, she knew that. Lord Tyrek Lannister of Lannisport had sent nearly a thousand all told, the Plumms another fifteen hundred, and the Presters two thousand, to add to the Rock’s own army. But for all that, they had barely five thousand strong, more than the Tarbecks on the field, but hardly enough to batter down the Hall’s walls. The rest were marching westward under her grandfather, hoping to catch the Leffords off guard.

They had been late leaving, hoping against hope that the Crakehalls or Swyfts would stir themselves, and waiting to bring as much of the west’s strength together as possible. She feared for the Baneforts and Marbrands in the north; the Reynes were far, far stronger than the Tarbecks, and they also had to watch for the Estrens and Leffords on their respective borders.

“We should be approaching the castle walls by nightfall.”

Kevan had come up beside her after conferring for a while with Ser Marek Lannister, Lord Tyrek’s son and heir, worry clear on his face.

“This had best work.”

“It will.” Joanna’s tone was firmer than it probably should be.

+++

_She rifled frantically through the shelves, trying not to damage any of the precious volumes. Many of them dated back to the Age of Heroes, and she could only imagine Kevan’s reaction if one of them were damaged._

_“When did you say it was written?”Stafford appeared dull-witted and slow to most of the Lannisters—mostly because he usually was—but he was dogged and persistent when given a task to do. _And better with numbers than I am, to be sure.

_“It would’ve been about a century before the first Andals landed, in the reign of King Tybolt III.” The Lannisters had been wise enough to periodically copy over old books onto new paper, making sure that the most ancient parts of their library weren’t lost to the ravages of time._

_“By a maester?”_

_“No, it’s changed since I last spoke, it was written by a baker’s bastard. _Of course _it was a maester, Staff!”_

_He grumbled a little as he returned to leafing through the pile before him. They had about an hour before everyone would be summoned to dinner in the main hall, and Joanna feared there was little hope of finding what she sought in that time._

_“We should bring this one along to the Cleganes,” she murmured. “It’s about dogs and hounds.”_

_“They’d be the one shooting the arrows now, not holding back the dogs,” he pointed out._

_“Yes, well…wait.”_

_Arrows._

_Sitting in the same library, as a little girl, listening to seven-year old Tywin scold Kevan for interrupting her, as she closed a book with—_

_—arrows on the cover._

_“I think I remembered something.”_

_“Yes?” Staff turned to her quickly._

_“Arrows on the cover.”_

_Wordlessly, he set the next three books aside to pull out a thick green volume, with white arrows crossed above the title:_

A Short Life:

Being The Recollections of Tywald, Maeßter to House Sarfield

_She opened it delicately—it was easily one of the older volumes in the stack—and leafed to the middle. Then another page on, then a few more—_

_—until she found what she sought._

_+++_

The evening was beginning to settle over the ocean road, with a gentle wind picking up from the Sunset Sea, when they caught sight of Tarbeck Hall.

Joanna groaned inwardly. _My uncle’s gold paid for this. _The Hall had been near derelict until Ellyn Reyne had wheedled sacks and sacks of coin from the Rock to make it whole. Now, the Tarbecks’ seat was one of the stronger castles in the West, with towering walls reinforced by scorpions every few feet.

“Bugger,” Kevan spat. “We’ll need to post sentries, Uncle, they’ll ambush us in the night elsewise.”

“Indeed.” Father had come up beside them in the last few moments, his hand already on the grip of his long sword. “I doubt the Tarbecks could put together a thousand men all told, but those walls…oh well.”

“Look.”

Joanna’s sharp tone captured their attention immediately. Jason Lannister followed where she was pointing, and groaned aloud.

There were Reyne banners over the walls.

“They must’ve sent a force southward through the Brax and Doggett lands,” Kevan muttered.

“It won’t matter.” Both men turned sharply as Joanna spoke.

“Jo..” Her father’s tone was gentle. “We don’t know if what you found will be enough.”

“I doubt it’ll fail. Also, it seems we have visitors.”

Beneath them, the gates of the Hall were opening, and a small party emerging under white and Tarbeck blue banners. A figure in blue was at the head, atop a beautiful white palfrey.

“Is that Lord Walderan?” Kevan asked.

“No.” Her father’s voice was colder than she had ever heard it.

“That, nephew, is Lady Tarbeck.”

_+++_

_“‘….Surely the very Goddes seeme to have forgotten the Plight of the Peoples of Stormye Brooke these past Yeares, as their Crops have now failed.’”_

_“Why are those letters capitalised?” Stafford asked curiously.  
“You have to do that with nouns—“ Joanna remembered too late how Staff had struggled in grammar—“you know, people, places and things, in Old Andal. They didn’t stop until a few centuries before the Conquest.”_

_She resumed reading._

_“‘I was but a Trainee in the Gardener Lands when it came to Passe, so I have Sette down’—well, _that _one shouldn’t be capitalised—‘what I understand and hath been told by the good Folk of Sarsfield Town, and the Villages nearby._

_‘That on the third day after Beltane, some three years agoe, there was a great Growling sette up from the direction of Stormy Brooke, and Lord Sarsfield himself rode oute to see to the Well-Being of the Small Folk there. But there was fire raging everywhere when he reached the Village, and not but three houses all destroyed._

_‘The good Folke of Stormy Brooke had made their way safe, and a Woods Witch among them explained to the Lord, that a groupe of young Folke were feared ded, as the great Sound heard from Sarsfield Towne had been from a Ball of Fire alike to those of Dragons in Valyria, that arose from a field where several of them had made a great Cooke Fire to boil a great many Egges for eating, as is the custom on Imbolg, but there had beene a great Rain that day, so they had lit the Fire not.’”_

_“He needs to get to the point,” Staff grumbled. Joanna hushed him and read on._

_“‘So the Lord rode out to the Spotte where the Fire had been banked, and there were not men nor women yet living there, nor remains. But the place overlooked the River, and he could see that the surface of the River was Black, and a foul odor arising from it, and there was more Black Liquid coming from a Hole in the Banke of the River . One of the Men at Arms took a Handful, and uttered a greate many Curses and Ungodly Words, as it was slick as if taken from Candle Oil. With the passage of Dayes, it was gone, for the Hole ceased to flow._

_‘And it strikes me that as we may ignite many common Oils, as was donne to break the walls of Old Ghis in the last Century by the Dragon Lords, perhaps there was an Ignition of the Stuff that poured into the River, and so perhaps this Oil may be found in the Sunset Lands as well as on far distant Shores in Valyria.”_

+++

They met barely fifteen feet from the gates.

Ellyn Tarbeck—_the Whore of Reyne, _Ty had always called her—was beautiful still, her hair an unusual dark red and tied back.

“I see your lord husband lacked the wrinkly stones to come himself.” She was shocked to hear her father speak like this, but remembered what this woman meant to him—she had married two of his brothers, and tried to seduce the third.

“Ah, Jason, you were never like this as a younger man.” The Lady of Tarbeck Hall had a surprisingly rough voice, and Joanna was reminded that the woman before her had been well-known for her singing when she’d lived in the Rock. “Much more…_carefree. _Tell me, how is dear Lynora?”

At the mention of their bastard sister, Stafford’s lip curled into a snarl. _Pay it no mind, _she thought in his direction; the girl had been born well before Father had wed their mother, who cared little about her one way or the other.

“Well enough,” Father replied calmly.

“And this must be Joanna. So sorry for your loss, my dear.”

“Keep your sorrow,” Kevan barked.

“And yours, Kevan, though I fear we’ve not met before. You’ve the look of your father—handsome devil he was when he was young and slim.”

“Is that why you ended up in his bedchamber like a common whore?” Jason and Lord Cedric started to hear Joanna’s words. “Or were you hoping that you might prove fertile on the third try?”

The Tarbeck woman’s eyes narrowed. “Five children I’ve born Lord Tarbeck, girl, more than Tytos’ woman ever did. And I’m still here, unlike her or her firstborn, who was too foolish to send scouts ahead. I can’t imagine it took my brothers all that much to catch him unawares.”

_Tytos’ woman._

She could remember her aunt’s funeral, if barely; it had been surprisingly good weather that day. She had stood beside her mother as the septon said his piece, her eyes on Uncle Tytos’ family. The Lord of the Rock had been weeping quietly, as had his two middle sons. Genna and Gerion had been too young to understand—far too young, for Gerion, who had still been in a nurse’s arms.

And Ty…Ty had kept his face frozen, as much as he could, but she had seen the wetness at the corners of the cat-green eyes.

Eyes she would never see again, thanks to this woman and her family.

“You admit you killed him?” Kevan sounded unsurprised, but this was new; the Reynes had claimed that the Lyddens had murdered Ty.

She shrugged. “The King heard much of his actions at the Cape, lion cub, enough to know that he would be a challenge if he led a western host into the Tully lands. We had our orders—or Roger did, anyway, and his archers are quite a bit better than anything we have here. We’ve tried training them, but it takes years and years.”

_She’s discussing the killing of the man I loved as if it were a corn sale._

“That’s it.” She barely recognised her own voice, nearly choked with fury. “Kiss your children goodbye, Lady Tarbeck, while you have time.”

Before either her cousin or father could say a word, she had turned her horse and spurred it for the lines.

_No more waiting._

+++

_“I see.”_

_Lord Cedric’s tone was cautious. Joanna could hardly blame him; what she had just read aloud to them was…surprising, to say the least._

_“And this story about the village“—Father’s face had gone pale when she’d started to speak, and was only now starting to regain its colour—“you said that was where?”_

_“Three leagues southeastward of Sarsfield town. Staff looked at the maps, it was marked pretty well.” Beside her, Joanna’s brother grinned bashfully._

_“This stuff sounds a good more dangerous than wildfire,” her grandfather said starkly. “If more plentiful.”_

_“It’s easy enough to extract, though,” Joanna argued. “Tarbeck Hall is quite strong, we all know this. If we can’t pierce the walls quickly, who knows what will come down from the east? The Leffords are already raising hosts, no?”_

_“She’s right.” Kevan had said not a word, until now. “Uncle, Lord Prester, we heard what happened at Gulltown. If we can beat down the Tarbecks quickly, many that would think to join the Blackfyres will think again.”_

_“Keavn—“_

_“That’s final.” Kevan was still five-and-ten, but would only be so for another moon’s turn; he was as much Lord Lannister as any man with his father still comatose, and unlikely to recover. “Send word to Lord Kayce, Lord Prester. As many barrels as he can fill.”_

_+++_

Joanna had reached the wagons and begun ordering them to head forward when Kevan reached her.

“Cousin, what took you?”

“I was done listening to that whore’s ramblings,” she answered shortly.

“So was I, in truth.” He sighed. “Why move the wagons?”

“No need to waste time in the morning.”

“When we should attack, you think?”

“I do.” She was impressed; few young men were willing to ask a woman’s advice in this fashion. _Not even Ty, for the most part. _“Hit hard, and then leave. We didn’t take more men than we needed, so it’s not wise to stay a sitting target hereabouts.”

“True enough.” He paused. “You…were more ferocious than I remember you, today.”

“I didn’t use to have memories of a boy that the black dragon ordered killed like a pig in a sty.” Joanna could feel wetness pricking the edges of her eyes. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I must retire.”

After a night of tossing and turning, and sleeping little, she was up before dawn, watching as the Prester and Lannister men who had escorted the great wagons began to unload their contents.

The first ten carried barrels, all of them sealed tight with pitch and wax, nearly three hundred all told. The last three had pieces of two trebuchets from the Rock’s armoury, much lighter than the great siege engines that would normally have been brought along for a task such as the one they were about to undertake. They had made good time as a result, better than she had expected.

As the trebuchets were erected at the edge of the camp, she could hear Father come up behind her.

“You’ve grown into quite the lioness.” He broke his silence after watching the first barrels being rolled up behind the trebuchets.

“Maybe Ty left it to me.”

“It’ll get better, you know, even if you don’t believe it.” He sighed.

_Gods know he’s lost more than I have._

The first barrel hit the edge of the keep, exploding over the courtyard. As the engineers hit their stride, the pace picked up, with the _crack _of wood breaking on stone echoing across the Hall. She could hear shouts and screams of anger and confusion from within the walls. _If they knew what their princess did at Gulltown, they would be afraid above all else._

Kevan signalled the archers to draw up along the edge of the camp, their arrows stuck into the ground before them. If the Tarbecks attempted a sortie, they would be vulnerable, trebuchets or none. Moreover, they had had to come into bow range, and Kevan was determined not to let their enemies pepper them with arrows.

“Jo.” She turned away from the sight of the last barrels being rolled up the trebuchet to see her cousin extending a bow to her.

“What?” She was confused.

“You should fire the bow.”

“He was your brother.”

“And your intended, even I could see that. Do it.”

She smiled a little at the sudden tone of command that he took, and accepted the weapon. A great fire pit had been dug at the middle of the archers’ line, with pitch-dipped arrows lined up behind it.

The heat from the flames nearly scorched her hands as she drew the arrow back. The first shot fell a few yards short of the walls; the bow was far stiffer than the hunting weapons she’d used back at Feastfires. One of the bowman, who she recognised from the Rock’s guard, stepped forward as if to take her place, only for Kevan to shake his head.

She concentrated as she drew back the second arrow. _For Ty._

She knew it would go from the moment that she released the arrow. It arced impossibly high, almost over the Hall’s great walls, before it began to descend, vanishing into the courtyard.

“Hear us roar.”

Her words were whispered. What followed was not.

For one moment, there was calm; she later imagined that that was the time needed for the flames to leap from the pitch to the oil spread across the ground.

Then, the Hall erupted.

The keep had been soaked in heavy, viscous oil by the trebuchet. As she watched, it was consumed by one of the largest fireballs she had ever seen. A second one blew out the wall facing them, followed by a series of smaller blasts that took

Then the screams started. She could see men running back and forth through the thick black smoke, rolling on the ground to try and extinguish the flames. A few knights spurred their horses forward, riding around the flaming ruins of the wall, only to be struck down by Lannister arrows.

She could hear her father gasp as the wind turned. The Hall was engulfed in the fiercest flames she had ever seen, and had already collapsed almost entirely. _Is this what Harranhal looked like? Or Valyria at the Doom?_

“There probably won’t be any survivors,” Father muttered, his voice still hollow and unbelieving as he stared at the inferno.

“There will be people who saw,” Joanna answered firmly, “and they will tell others what happens when you defy the Rock.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see shock on Kevan’s face. _I’ve changed, cousin, and don’t you forget it._

“It’ll be enough if the Crakehalls hear,” he said at last, his eyes still on the ruin. “We didn’t lose a single man today.”

“We probably can’t do it again,” she warned. “The Reynes will know.”

“Aye, and I don’t want them stealing any of this.” He turned away at last. “It’s time to go.”

They would be returning by ship, no longer needing to take their time with the wagons; Father had shot down her idea of bringing the oil by sea, pointing out that there would be nowhere to run if it erupted on board. Ravens brought with them, however, would be sent to all the lordly houses in the West, warning them what had happened there today—a clear message. The Crakehalls and Paynes had been ordered to march on the Deep Den and Castamere, respectively.


	21. Chapter 21

BRANDA

They were some of the last to the party.

Castamere appeared small at the surface—a few towers, a curtain wall— but she knew most of it lay beneath the fertile fields around them, now bloodstained from recent combat.

She could see crows settling on the remaining corpses, most of them in Reyne red, a few in the Vances’ black, gold and white. The few in western colours were being carried from the field as she watched; a great pit awaited them at the edge of the woods, behind the Lannister lines. Stackspear, Westerling, Marbrand, Plumm, Prester—the houses that had first come when the Rock called were all here, ready to put an end to the would-be new Wardens of the West, with a host nearly eight thousand strong. _Still small for the West, is it not?_

“The stench…”

She looked to her side. Roger Estren’s face was pale. Her squire on paper, her hostage in truth, he was barely three-and-ten; she had had to hold his mother’s hands in her own as he’d mounted his horse. Lady Estren had begged her to make certain that her boy came back home alive and well.

_Unless he or your lord husband turns on us, he’ll be well enough, _she had wanted to say.

_+++_

_Nunn’s Deep was easily one of the weakest castles she had ever seen._

_The mountain hollow into which it was built had steep slopes, enough to keep attackers from storming the Estrens in that direction, but the wall that protected the opening was made of pine logs._

_“This’ll be short enough, I hope,” Jason Banefort said grimly._

Don’t see why not. _The Baneforts’ main strength was already assembled beneath the Deep’s walls, under command of Jason’s firstborn brother Donnor. She could see him as they rode across the last bridge before Nunnston, urging his men towards the wall._

_“Wait,” Rickard Karstark growled. “What are they doing?”_

_“What do you…eh?”_

_The gate of the Deep had been opened. As Branda watched incredulously, the black dragon flying above the main keep dropped, along with the Estrens’ own banners._

_“Maybe they captured a hostage?” Hother Umber wondered aloud._

_“Donnor wrote no word of that,” Jason replied, his eyes still fixed on the gate. “And I doubt there’s a hostage that could get Lord Estren to open his gates like that. His only son is too young to command his own troops, and his brother died when we routed them on the surf road.”_

_As they passed through Nunnston, empty of people, a sentry from the Baneforts hailed them, pointing Jason, Mors, Branda and Rickard towards the Deep’s gate. They fell in beside rows of trudging Banefort men as they passed through the surprisingly thick curtain wall, into a dirty courtyard._

_A young, balding man who she assumed to be Lord Estren was kneeling in the dirt before a burly man with close-cut red hair, and a vicious spiked mace slung across his back._

_“Donnor!”_

_Jason swung off his horse and beckoned for the northerners to follow him. She could see the resemblance between the two almost instantly as Donnor Banefort turned to face them: similar haircut, similarly deep-coloured eyes._

_“Jay, you’re just in time…who are they?” _Even the same voice.

_“The North.”_

_“This is the North?” There was a differtence, she realised; Donnor’s expression was mistrustful. “I thought they were slaughtered at Atranta.”_

_“Many of us,” Branda replied, stepping forward._

_“Who are you?” His eyes narrowed. “Jason, you brought a woman onto a battlefield?”_

_“She brought herself,” Branda answered archly._

_“Mind your tongue, woman,” Donnor said sharply._

_At that, she had to throw out her arm to keep Rickard Karstark from drawing his axe. Mors Umber snarled under his breath._

_“You’re speaking to Lord Stark’s goodsister, Don,” Jason said quickly. “She commanded their forces at the surf road, where we routed the Estrens.”_

_“Saved your brother’s sorry arse from a beating, we did,” Mors rasped._

_“And who are you?” Banefort muttered disdainfully._

_“Lord Umber’s brother, pretty boy,” he spat back._

_“Enough,” Branda said sharply. “Ser Donnor, can you explain why the Estrens just gave up?”_

_“They had word from the south,” the Banefort heir replied, evidently trying to keep a civil tone. “The Tarbecks were burned out of their castle. Lot of that going around.”_

_“What do you mean, _burned out?” _Hother said uneasily._

_“Lord Tytos’ niece, Joanna, she pitched Essosi oil over the walls, then lit it on fire. The place exploded, blew out the walls. The Witch of Tarbeck, they’re calling her.”_

_“I don’t understand,” Jason said calmly. “Exploded?”_

_“Aye, blew up like it had been soaked in wildfire. Not a stone left atop another. There are no Tarbecks left, nor their hall. The Estrens bent the knee when they heard. So did the Leffords, the Doggetts, everyone save the Reynes.”_

Gods be good…

_“We’re marching on Castamere, then?”_

_“No, that’s been left to the Marbrands. We’re going east, brother, to Riverrun. Catch the trout off guard.”_

_Her mouth curled up into a smile. _Finally.

_“Ser, you said there was ‘a lot of that going around’”, Hother asked. “What did you mean?”_

_“The Blackfyre bitch and her wyvern burned out the middle of Gulltown,” the Banefort knight answered, spitting into the ground. Behind him, Lord Estren was handing his sword over to Donnor’s squire._

_“Her _what?!” _Branda shouted._

MARIUS

The royal camp was chaos.

The meadow overlooking the Ruby Ford, the only place for miles where an army of any size could cross from the northeastern part of the realm, had been trampled into mud by the presence of a sizeable host: crownlanders, most of them, and a handful of stormlords.Marius sighed as he swung off his horse. _Twenty thousand once you add the Brunes and Boggs that I rode here with. This isn’t enough to fight the Valemen alone, never mind the Company. Forty thousand they must have coming down from the Gate, all told. And that’s without the bloody wyvern._

_Remind me why I’m here again?_

“They need to clean up their damn trenches,” one of the Brune knights growled. Despite riding beside the man since the Dyre Den, where he’d come ashore in the little hooker, Marius had no idea what the man’s name was. _Dick? Dyrk? _“Horse nearly threw a damn shoe.”

“Who goes there?”

They had come close to the King’s tent, which overlooked the swift-flowing Trident, and a Kingsguard knight was striding forth, his long white cloak soiled by mud about the edges.

_Not the Lord Commander, too short. Who is this?_

“Lords Ned Brune, of the Dyre Den, and Marius Grafton, of Gulltown,” his traveling companion answered. _Well, he remembered _my _name. _Marius still wasn’t used to the idea of being the Lord of Gulltown; the last hours he’d had in the city had been spent clinging to the underside of a jetty, after all. _And they’re all gone. Gods, they’re all gone. Every other Grafton worth mentioning._

“Gulltown?” The Kingsguard’s eyebrows raised in alarm. “Please follow me, both of you.”

He set off for the King’s tent. Shrugging, Marius followed, as did Ned Brune, a stocky, red-faced man riddled with pox scars and fishhook cuts.

Inside was even more chaotic than outside.

About twelve lords were crammed around the King’s map table, arguing fiercely with one another. He recognised Lords Blackwood, Thorne, Langward, Gaunt, and Penrose; the others were unfamiliar. King Aegon was at the head of the group, flanked by Duncan the Tall and Ser Henrik Edgerton, the youngest of the Kingsguard knights, listening.

“…Jolly Fellows will be at Dragonstone any day now—“

“—wyverns—“

“—forty thousand of them—“

“—bloody myths for children—“

“—fucking traitors—“

“—Arryns—“

“—myths—“

“SILENCE!”

The last roar came from the guard that had brought them in. The room turned to the newcomers.

“Ser Samwell, what is the meaning of this?” Lord Thorne barked. “We’re trying to—“

“He’s come from Gulltown,” Ser Samwell answered, jerking his thumb towards Marius. “This is Lord Grafton.”

“My lord.” Aegon V pushed his way through the small knot of crownlanders, coming to stand before the former watchman. His violet eyes showed that he’d had little sleep.

“Is it true?”

“The wyvern, Your Grace?” Marius had heard confused mutterings from many of the smallfolk they’d met on the road from the Dyre Den, and was used to having this conversation. “Yes. I saw it with my own eyes.”

The room erupted in noise again.

“QUIET!” This time, it was Ser Duncan who bellowed at the men, who shrank back.

“Thank you, Dunk. Tell me of it, Lord Grafton.”

“It was as close to me as you are now.” He sighed. “About the size of two oxen put together, needle-like teeth. Thick scales, not so thick as a dragon.”

“Could it breathe fire?” Lord Blackwood asked quietly. “We heard it destroyed a good part of the city centre.”

“It did. With wildfire. The rider threw barrels of it from her saddle.”

“Her?”

“It was Aemon Blackfyre’s sister atop the beast, Your Grace. Calla, she called herself. I surrendered the city to her before I jumped into the harbour. It was that or see it all burn.”

“You did the right thing,” Aegon said quietly, turning when grumbling arose from behind him. “It would have happened regardless, my lords.”

“What would have, Your Grace?”

“The Golden Company’s allies landed another ten thousand men, and sixty elephants, at Gulltown, and are marching them towards the Bloody Gate.” The King’s face was clearly pained. “Sellswords, most of them.”

_Well._

_Fuck._

“I…this is bad news.” Marius groaned quietly. “Is there word from the West or Reach?”

“The Tarbecks have fallen, and the Estrens are under siege. The siege of Deep Den was broken by House Crakehall. It is likely that the West will march shortly.” A twisted smile played across Aegon’s lips. “What you describe this Calla doing, my lord…Joanna Lannister did much the same to Tarbeck Hall, soaked it in oil and then set it alight. The whole place went up in a great ball of fire. The Leffords bent the knee shortly thereafter, and the westerlords that had delayed called up their full strength. The Reynes are hard pressed. My grandson…Aerys has been captured, at Wayfarer’s Rest. I have hopes that the Lyddens of Deep Den will be able to prevent the Vances from ransoming him to the Blackfyres, but we lack any type of captive to trade at the moment. We have but twenty thousand men here, hardly enough, but there are hopes that the west will reinforce us before the Blackfyres get here. They’ve only just begun to descend from the Bloody Gate.”

_Fuck me sideways…the Prince captured, that’s bad._“And the Reach?”

Aegon sighed. “Where should I begin?”

OLYVAR

_Bloody hell._

Olyvar’s mouth had dropped just a little bit.

He had known that the Tyrells were weak. Lord Luthor, as the courtiers at Sunspear always pointed out, kept his brains in his arms. The banner men who were supposed to be sworn to the roses included some of the most powerful Houses in the realm, with lords who could easily dream of far more than they had.

And now they had come to claim what they imagined to be theirs.

Highgarden was under siege.

From the hills where the small advance party had come to rest, he could see it all laid out before him. The orange banner of House Peake and the Fossoway apples, flew over the southern wing of a vast host, with thousands upon thousands of marcher lords and their men making up the northern end. All in all, he estimated that there were no fewer than twenty-five thousand men at the Tyrells’ doorstep.

It had been brilliant, the Dornishman had to admit. The Tarlys had gone down to defeat against the Peakes when the Mullendores had ambushed them from the south, taking Horn Hill for the first time in its long history. Rather than march on Oldtown, the Starpike men had then turned and struck northward, meeting up with the bulk of the Dornish Marches’ strength to first sack Harvest Hall, and then arrive overnight at the Tyrells’ gates.Occupied with the Florents and Costaynes, the Hightowers had been unable to help, and the Oakhearts were moving slowly. Olyvar commanded nowhere near enough men to take on the army before them—so they were stuck waiting.

_We could always let them tear each other apart, I suppose. _The Tyrells, for all their weakness as a house, had one of the strongest castles south of the Rock, and could extract a bloody price from anyone who scaled their walls. _But even so, I don’t think we have enough men to fight them._

_And that’s before I think of the wyvern._

The reports he had received from Sunspear left him with no doubt; the age of flight had returned to Westeros. It wasn’t just the scattered rumours of Gulltown’s sudden fall, either; ships sent out from the Greenblood reported that a small Tyroshi fleet had made landfall in the rainwood, and that something much, much larger than any bird had been spotted flying as far north as Tarth. _How many Blackfyres are there, anyway? How many of these things? _He knew that Aemon the Black Dragon had at least one sister—the stories from the Vale were conflicting, but they all agreed that the Graftons had met their end at her hands. _Others, maybe? A brother?_

“My father would roll in his grave.”

He turned to see Lewyn Martell approaching. The Prince of Dorne’s youngest son had taken command of the far south’s forces just before they struck across the Marches.

“To be this close to Highgarden, and fight alongside the Tyrells? A true shame.”

“We do what we must, I suppose.” Olyvar had fought against the man now looking at him in two tourneys, at Skyreach and Stinkwater; he clearly hadn’t lost even a scrap of muscle. Prince Lewyn’s long saber, forged in the Lorathi style, was the only weapon he carried—no armour heavier than chain mail on leather for him—that could be seen. His face, much rounder than that of his father, older brother or sister, was marked with worry.

“It’ll take us an hour to get back to the main army. Would you have me draw them up here? Or turn about?”

“You’re in command, my prince.”

“And you were with the Company of the Cat. What would you do?”

“Pull back, strike their flanks, keep them from being able to launch an attack either way. Let the Oakhearts and Rowans come up and crush them from the west.”

“And what would you do, as a Dornishman?”

“Get Lord Luthor to sally forth against them, leave him without aid and let the two tear one another apart. Then take the castle.” The Tyrells certainly had enough mounted knights to wreak havoc if they gave the Peakes and marchers an open battle. _But they can last much longer if they don’t._

“I’ll consider it, Ser Olyvar. We must get going.”

Lewyn turned to return to his horse, with Olyvar close behind.

_If we do this and the Targaryens find out, we’re very, very dead. But we might be even if we don’t._

ULLA

The siege of Dragonstone had taken perhaps five minutes.

Calla Blackfyre had dropped just two barrels of thick, viscous oil onto the Dragonmont, firing both of them with a flaming arrow, before the garrison ran up the white flag.

Ulla couldn’t help but laugh just a little bit as her fleet surged forward. _Some impenetrable fortress this is. _The royal fleet, normally stationed in the great harbour beneath the Dragonmont, was away to the south, leaving the Targeryens’ ancestral home defenseless.

“Everything’s changed.”

Joron stood beside her on the rearcastle, his face a little pale at the sight of Grazzaxes circling and descending towards the Dragonstone courtyard. He had done his best to avoid Princess Calla when she’d been aboard, which was easy; the woman had only come across from the _Smith’s Hammer _twice. But both of those times had been on wyvernback.

She turned to him. “What do you mean?”

“If they really have six of those…then the age of sieges is coming to an end,” the Farwynd answered grimly. “You saw what happened to the centre of Gulltown, didn’t you? That stuff’s powerful to tear apart even the strongest keep’s walls.”

“I suppose all the realm’s lords will be building scorpions, then.”

“If you were wise, you would too.”

She rounded on him swiftly. “Don't say that aloud!”

“How much use do you suppose the Blackfyres have for us with those…things at their command?” Joron’s voice was cold. “You’ll meet the same fate as the Graftons if you cross them.”

“They’ve still troops to bring across.”

“For now. But when you’re back at Iron Holt, you would be advised to have scorpions—“

He was cut off by a great roar that came up from the deck. Grazzaxes was returning now, soaring lower and lower.

_I hope she’s not…oh, bugger._

The wyvern landed atop Ulla’s own brigantine, rocking the ship as it perched on the gunwale, then hopped onto the centre of the deck.

“Lady Wynch!” She could barely hear Calla’s roar over the beast and the sea winds. “We need to get under way, now! Only leave two ships here!”

“Very well!” Ulla called back. She had hoped to stop overnight at Dragonstone, but knew that they were bound for the Gullet, the tortuous, rocky stretch of sea between Driftmark and Massey’s Hook. “What has passed?”

“The royal fleet is there! They’re fighting the Tyroshi! Now come!” With that last word, the new Princess of Dragonstone shouted something to her mount, which screeched and took off again, hovering until it could spread its wings and take off towards the south.

“Bloody _hell.” _Ulla could feel fear prickling down her spine. _The royal fleet. _The crownlands could call upon close to a hundred and fifty fighting ships. They had barely forty, counting the longships and the ships taken from Gulltown, whose sailors were still learning the ropes. _And I’ve never sailed these waters before._

“Well,” Joron said humorlessly, “I suppose that beast will come in handy after all.”

MARIUS

“If we’d any sense, we’d run.”

With no men of his own to order around, Marius stuck close to the Dyre Den men as they pitched their small tents. Unable to complete even the most basic task with the tent rods, he was sent in the direction of the kitchens instead, where he found himself chopping potatoes on a rough wooden table. _A pretty sight I am. _He had little of a Vale lord’s usual pride, thank the gods, having been raised to believe that he was bound for nothing more prestigious than the Gulltown watch.

It was proving handy now. No one noticed the vegetable cutter.

“Hold yer tongue,” another of the cooks, a stout man with a red face, grumbled.

“I mean it. What’s the fookin’ point of gettin’ drowned in wildfire?” The dissenter was a few inches shorter than Marius, with ugly pox scars down the backs of his hands.

“They’re slavers,” a third cook, this one barely a boy, pointed out. “What do ye think they’ll do to their enemies?”

“Wouldn’t be their enemies if we aren’t on the field, now would we?”

“Lose your land all the same,” the boy answered. “Me brother sailed to Slaver’s Bay. They’ve great big farms there, all slaves in the fields. Cheaper, it is. They’ll kick us all off our own fields.”

“Maybe. Dyin’ by wildfire’s certain.”

The boy fell silent at that, but Marius could see the doubt in the other man’s eyes. _Didn’t think of what it would be like to live next to slaves before, now did you? _He pushed a pile of chopped potatoes towards the stout cook, expecting and getting no thanks. The last Lord Grafton was unsure that the men in the kitchen knew who he was, which was probably for the best.

_Highgarden under siege. _He let his thoughts drift a little as he started on the onions. _That’s the Reach lost to us, in truth._

A shout came from the campgrounds, along with the sound of hooves.

“Silly buggers get excited every time an outrider gets back,” the cook muttered.

Marius turned his head a bit to listen. “I’m not so sure about that.” He strained his ears.

“—bank—“

“—spears—“

“—elephants—“

“—at the ford—“

“—spears—“

“—reached the ford—“

_Well, I think I can pick that out. _Peeling the onions, he sighed.

“Well?” the cook said impatiently.

“I’m afraid it’s obvious what happened,” the old commander of the guard said grimly. “The Blackfyres have reached us.”

Ignoring the shocked gasps from the others, he finished the last onion and left the tent. Men were grabbing spears and shields all around him, a few shouting directions at the others.

A sergeant grabbed him by the arm. “You! Tell that lot to pack it up!”

“What?”

“We’re leaving!”

_A mutiny? _Before he could challenge the man, he saw King Aegon striding through the middle of the tents, shouting orders.

_So we are leaving. _It made sense to him; the men they had were hardly enough to stand against the oncoming foe. _Back to King’s Landing, then? I doubt that’ll be easier to defend. Or…or somewhere else._

In any event, he would need his horse.

ULLA

Battle had already been joined when they arrived.

The stretch of the Gullet where the approaching Tyroshi fleet had run into the royal fleet was five leagues south of Driftmark, the seat of House Velaryon, and just too far north to make out Massey’s Hook. There were a handful of shoals off to the east, and a vicious riptide running against the ironborn fleet.

And ahead, pure chaos.

The Tyroshi had sent perhaps fifty ships, dromonds all, which were now being encircled by the towering vessels of the royal fleet. Ulla could barely make out the red dragon on their sails, but she could see that there were many more of them.

The only reason that the battle wasn’t over yet, was the wyvern. Calla had already set at least six Targaryen ships aflame with oil, and Grazzaxes tore into the rigging of a seventh as Ulla watched, her hands tightening on the wheel. They were half a mile out and closing fast, an erratic wind off Driftmark filling their sails.

“Scorpions ready!”

Joron repeated the command, and she could see them being wheeled out on the other ships. The Braavosi navy had heavy equipment aboard, scorpions and trebuchets much stronger than any Ulla had ever seen on a Westerosi ship, and the wyvern-carrying cog had apparently contained a number as well, which had been given to the _Smith’s Hammer _and the other Vale ships.

_Plus, we have the oil. _Calla had gifted them twenty barrels of the Essosi oil that she had dropped onto Gulltown, volatile and far more dangerous than the hot pitch that Westerosi castle defenders sometimes used. The Tyroshi ships were bringing more, the Blackfyre woman had told them, and she only needed a little more.

“Closing fast!” Joron called out. They had a field of whitecaps at their back, and the wake was getting bigger and bigger. Ahead, she could now make out individual figures running back and forth on the nearest royal dromond’s deck. Before she could warn anyone aboard, a scorpion bolt whistled forth, only to splash into the water halfway in between. _Good thing ours are longer._

“Release!”

The giant scorpions mounted by the prow didn’t miss. One bolt tore through the rigging of the dromond’s foremast, but the other hit the rearcastle, sending splinters flying. Looking left and right, she saw that Dunstan’s _Stormrunner _and Quenta’s _Breakfang _had both landed direct hits as well. Quenta had hurled an oil barrel onto one ship’s deck. Seeing the black stain spread across the ship, Calla changed direction, dropping a lit torch onto the deck as she shot overhead. The resulting explosion blew out the middle of the ship, which began to sink.

_We’re in range._

Ulla signalled for Walton to run up the red flag, forcing the other ironborn to pull up. She knew it ate at them not to charge the enemy head-on, but they would be able to sink a number of dromonds at this distance.

The scorpions fired again, hitting more of the royal fleet, and the trebuchets tossed oil barrels and rocks onto several decks. In the distance, she could see a number of ships abandoning their encirclement to face the new threat. _If we run out of bolts and oil before they get here, this’ll be difficult. _The Braavosi brigantines lacked the heavy ramming bows of the dromonds, or the long Tyroshi galleys.

Seeing their enemies turning, the Tyroshi pounced. The biggest of their ships manoeuvred its way around the flaming wreck of one of its comrades, followed by ten others as they began to pursue the departing Targaryen ships. As a bolt landed just shy of the _Smith’s Hammer—they’re getting closer—_she could see Grazzaxes alight on the deck. _More oil, I hope, or…_

It wasn’t. The last four Targaryen ships in the approaching group, which was struggling to get around the dromonds that the ironborn had hit, were bunched closely together. As Ulla watched, Grazzaxes took off from thedropped four barrels in between them, which began to leak green—and then another torch.

The blast from the wildfire seemingly vaporised the nearest ships. Four others were hit by erupting flames, another two capsized. The knot of approaching ships came to a near halt, giving the Tyroshi time to catch them up.

Joron laughed—and then shouted in horror.

Calla had made a mistake. One of the dromonds, its foremast destroyed by a trebucheted rock—_King Maekar’s Hand,_ the name painted on the side read— was training its scorpions on Grazzaxes, who was sailing towards the masts.

Ulla screamed at her own forecastle to fire, pointing at the enemy ship. Seeing the problem, the men on the righthand scorpion instantly loaded another bolt, cranking the arm back as fast as they could.

Calla didn’t see the dromond until it was too late. The scorpion fired straight upwards as she tried to pull Grazzaxes up. The wyvern dodged the missile, but hit the sail, knocking her rider off. As Ulla watched in horror, Calla Blackfyre fell into the Gullet.

BRANDA

_Gods help us all._

Branda had seen wyverns before in Essos; little brown bellies, for the most part, but some of the savage green wyverns as well, in fairs in the Free Cities. The idea that someone could actually _control _one of them, though…or drop wildfire from it, _that _was the problem..was utterly terrifying.

_We’d best have good scorpions._

As they approached the Lannisters’ encampment, she saw men setting up trebuchets in a line before the first row of tents. _Gods be good…those must be for the oil. _A shiver ran down her spine as she saw wagons full of barrels being driven through the camp.

The biggest tent, in the middle, was decorated with the Prester bull quartered against the Lannister lion. Branda caught her breath as she entered; it was easily one of the most luxurious field quarters she’d ever been in, with elegant wooden furniture and a spread of nuts, cold meats and cheeses on a wooden table.

The people standing around it took little note. She recognised Lord Marbrand easily enough by his red hair, and Lord Sarsfield by his arrow brooch.Norbert Westerling, who she had been introduced to briefly at the Cape, was seated, nursing a wound to his side.

They were all listening to one woman, who turned as Donnor Banefort cleared his throat.

_So this is their Witch._

Joanna Lannister had a certain beauty to her, Branda could see, but the green eyes betrayed a hard edge, and raw grief beneath. She was clad in riding leathers, close to armour, and had her hair tied back.

“Ser Donnor.” Her voice was deceptively soft, and Branda realised that this was a far, far more dangerous person than the muscular lords and knights around her. “And..I fear I do not know your guests.”

“Branda of House Stark, Mors and Hother of House Umber, Rickard of House Karstark,” the Banefort heir replied sourly.

Her eyebrows rose a little. “Those are Northern houses, ser.”

“We came up through the hills after Atranta,” Rickard replied. “Got pinned against the Blue Fork.”

“That was a disaster.” Joanna shook her head slowly.

“For us all,” Branda answered quickly. “Where do we stand, my lady?”

“We drew our forces up here yesterday, and gave the Reynes a good thumping,” Marbrand rasped. _Too much dust in his throat. _“Our plan—Lady Joanna’s plan— is to use the oil that remains to us to eliminate Castamere—permanently—and then ride eastwards.”

“To the riverlands?”

“Yes, along the river road to the ford on the Trident.” Joanna answered before Marbrand could. “The riverlords have a force of perhaps twelve thousand at Harrenhal. Old Tully lost most of his western strength at Atranta, and the southern riverlords had to chase Prince Aerys all over their lands until the other day. The Freys would be another three thousand, but the sisters laid siege to their seat. Riverrun is poorly defended, but of little value to us.”

“The sisters?” Branda said sharply.

“And what happened to Aerys Targaryen?” added Hother.

“You’re sharp, I see. Lord Sunderland, of the Three Sisters, has sacked the Freys’ lands, and has a host at the Twins’ walls. I imagine the Iron Throne offered him more than the Blackfyres could. And the Prince…Aerys was captured two days ago by the Vances of Wayfarer’s Rest. His men were slaughtered, only a handful escaped to Hornvale.”

_Shit. _By any account, including Branda’s own, Aerys Targaryen had been one of his family’s deadliest warriors and generals.

“Wasn’t Hornvale on the Blackfyres’ side?” Jason muttered.

“When the Braxes held it, yes. The Crakehalls think differently.” Joanna stood up. “Lady Stark, your good brother will be joining us shortly as well.”

“My goodbrother?” Hope filled Branda’s heart.

“Lord Rickard Stark has called up nearly twenty thousand men from across the North, and is sailing for Lannisport on our ships, and those of the Redwynes. They’ll land in a few days. We will have nearly fifty thousand all told.”

_Fifty…_they would be able to match the Blackfyres at that rate, she realised.

_There’s at least a little hope._

ULLA

_“Forward! Now! Now! Now!”_

_Lord Gerold_’s midshipmen unfurled the sails, which caught the winds that had driven them south at a blistering pace, and surged forward. Ulla felt a sickening sensation in her stomach; Calla may have been wearing light riding leathers instead of full plate, but even that would become a deadweight in the water. Above her, Joron’s gulls took off, as her first mate slumped against the capstan. _Be ironic if _they _end up saving her, I should think._

An enemy scorpion bolt shattered part of the right gunwale. They had come into range of two Targaryen dromonds. She gritted her teeth as she heard screams from several of her men; the splinters were like crossbow bolts, and one of them had torn through Walton’s throat. The left-hand dromond fired again, barely missing; its comrade was closing fast.

_Bloody hell…_

“I can’t see her.” Joron’s eyes flew open.

“We’re getting close!” As Ulla spoke, the damaged mast of the _King Maekar _collapsed into the water, dragging a forest of rigging with it. The wounded dromond was unable to get out of the attacking’ ships way, leaving the ironborn with a small amount of cover on the decks. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Grazzaxes going berserk, tearing off the mast of a dromond and swiping several of its crew overboard with her tail. _Is the princess dead, then? Is that why she’s doing this?_

They were almost over the point where Calla had gone into the drink, as her brother would have said, and there was no sign. Another scorpion bolt buried itself in the deck as the tip of the fallen mast grazed the hull.

“Turn!” Ulla screamed. She couldn’t risk her crew this close, not for someone almost certainly dead by now. The Tyroshi ships were close enough for her to read their names, but they wouldn’t be able to save the _Saltreaper _if they took any more hits from the approaching Targaryens. She yanked the wheel around, and the prow narrowly missed the _King Maekar’s _forecastle; they had come far too close. She could see the rowers on the nearest dromond, the _Sea Snake III, _straining to catch them. The _Saltreaper_’s riggers opened up the sails as they turned westward. _We’ll outrun them._

Then she heard a cry.

_That wasn’t a seagull._

“What the—“

She leaned over the rail, and gasped.

Calla Blackfyre was clinging to the tip of a sail spar from the _King Maeker’s _downed mast, her eyes wide with shock. In another second, the _Saltreaper’s _sails would catch the wind, and she would be out of reach. And most likely fallen from the mast, back into the grey sea.

Shouting at Joron to take the tiller, Ulla hauled herself to the edge and rolled over the gunwale.

Her legs might never have worked, but the Lady Reaper of Pyke was a strong swimmer. Hitting the water about ten metres from Calla’s position, she shot forward, spluttering a bit as water got into her nose. Like most ironborn, she didn’t wear armour while on shipboard, and was grateful for it; she would have been unable to move as fast if she did.

_Let’s hope the ship’s turning around._

She reached the mast just as a wave knocked Calla back into the water. Ulla grabbed the other woman by the collar, cursing as she sank a bit into the waves.

“Hands around me! Now!”

The Blackfyre, still a little stunned from her fall, wrapped her arms around Ulla’s waist underwater. She pushed off from the edge of the spar, trying to make it back towards the _Saltreaper, _which had hove to. She could see the crew preparing to launch a rowboat over the side.

Just have to get there…

A rock narrowly missed her head. Someone on the dromond behind them had clearly seen what was going on. Ulla redoubled her pace, trying to keep ahead as a scorpion bolt splashed down just a few metres to the right. _if they hit me, we’re both gone._

She heard Calla scream something in what sounded like Valyrian as they were almost hit by a rock; the Targaryens’ aim was getting better. The rowboat hit the water from _Saltreaper’s _deck, and she could see men on the scorpions firing back at the dromond behind her.

As Ulla’s chin began to slip beneath the water, she could feel air rushing over the crown of her head. _Is this wind, or—_

_Whump._

_Whump._

_Whump._

_What on earth—_

Grazzaxes had come back.

The wyvern was hovering low over the two of them, and grabbed Calla with her sharp claws. Now it was there Blackfyre princes’’ turn to repay the favour, as Calla held onto Ulla’s waist tightly, forcing her mount to pull both of them from the water. Ulla convulsed violently as the cold wind blew over her exposed, soaked arms. She screamed as they dipped down, thinking that Grazzaxes had been hit, only to see that the wyvern had been avoiding a bolt from the _Saltreaper._

Coming down over the deck, the wyvern deposited them gently onto the wood. Calla rolled over and coughed, hacking up more seawater than Ulla would have said the other woman had room for. She felt as if there were still a lot of it in her ears, and jerked her head to one side.

Something warm trickled down her neck, and the world’s sound came rushing back.

”—idiotic thing I’ve ever seen!”

Joron was shouting at her, fear clear in hs eyes.

“I..haaaacchhhh…had to…”Ulla spat what seemed to be a clump of seaweed onto the deck.

“You could’ve drowned!” the Farwynd boy yelled angrily.

“So…could she!”

Ulla pulled herself up into a sitting position, to see that Calla Blackfyre had done the same, leaning against Grazzaxes’ leg. Ravos Three Fingers offered her a beaker of fresh water, which she gulped down gratefully.

“So…” Calla’s voice was weak. “…I lost all the…air from my lungs. Is…this a blessing from…your Drowned God?”

Joron’s eyes widened, and then he began to laugh, quietly at first, then heartily. The rest of the crew joined in.

“What is dead may never die!” Ulla shouted.

“WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE!”

_It is. _She could see a new level of respect in her men’s eyes. Greenlanders who drowned and died were hardly favoured by He Who Dwells Beneath The Waves, but those who lived…even ironborn could respect that, and this woman had destroyed dozens of enemy ships. Looking up, she could see that the ironborn assault had taken its toll on the Targaryen fleet. The knot of dromonds that had approached them were sinking, most of them laced with scorpion bolts and oil drums from either the ironborn ships or Grazzaxes’ claws. Their loss had given the Tyroshi an opening against the western wing of the royal fleet, which they were using. The ships under the red dragon flag were breaking up, some of them standing and fighting but most trying to flee south and west. _Pity we took the nearest islands; they’ll have little enough luck before they reach Massey’s Hook._

“We won.” Calla stood up a little shakily. “You won, all of you.”

“Next is King’s Landing.”


End file.
